


Your Lifelong Membership is Free

by minusoneday



Series: The Noble Tie That Binds [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Derek POV, Humor, M/M, Prank Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minusoneday/pseuds/minusoneday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uncle Peter’s spent years regaling Derek with tales of his time as President of the Alphas. Derek’s paid close attention, because Peter’s stint as President is a pretty comprehensive guide on ‘How to Successfully Run a Fraternity into the Ground,’ so Derek plans to do the opposite of what Peter did.</p><p>***</p><p>A Derek POV to There is a Brotherhood. In which Derek's life is hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of companion piece to There is a Brotherhood. I noticed the other day that TiaB had reached 70,000 hits, which is mind-blowing and AMAZING, and alksjdfad you guys, I still can't believe all of the love I have gotten for that fic. Seriously, you are all awesome, and I really wanted to write something in this verse as a thank you. So here is some Derek POV for you all!
> 
> I've tried very hard to keep Derek's side of things fresh and new, without too much rehashing of scenes from the original, so hopefully I've at least managed that most of the time. I'm not sure when the next parts of this will be posted, though I'm hoping to make it sometime this week. (For those of you following Blood Pounding in Our Veins, I will be updating that one soon, too! Sorry x a billion for the wait.)
> 
> ANYWAY, I very much hope you guys enjoy this, and thank you again for all of the lovely comments and kudos and compliments you've given to me. It gives me a serious case of the warm fuzzies, you have no idea.
> 
> ***
> 
> A couple quick story notes! The Alphas' VP is Cal as in Deucalion, because obvs the Alpha Pack would be in the Alpha frat. Also, all of the Hales are alive and well! Derek's angst is generally of his own devising in this one. Please see the end notes for a few additional warnings!

*

“I just think it’s time the fraternity grew up a little bit,” Derek says, lifting a shoulder to keep his phone pressed against his ear, while he reaches out to grab a box of quinoa off the shelf.

“Uh huh, time to grow up, gotcha.” Laura’s voice sounds tinny through the phone; Derek doesn’t know if it’s the connection, or the fact that she’s so many miles and towns and _states_ away. 

“I’m serious,” Derek says, rescuing his phone from its precarious position, his fingers curling around it carefully. It’s brand-new, shiny and fragile-seeming, and he’s still not entirely convinced he’s going to get through the first week of owning it without accidentally crushing it.

Laura sighs; Derek can so easily picture her rolling her eyes. “Everyone’s going to hate you if you start the year off by taking away everything fun.”

“They had plenty of fun _last_ year, I assure you,” Derek argues. “And I’m not talking about taking away everything fun! I’m not some monster.”

“Not a monster, just a fun-sucker,” Laura says agreeably, and Derek makes another frustrated noise. He doesn’t know what the hell it is about big sisters, because none of his other siblings are nearly as annoying as Laura is.

“I just think our reputation could be better,” he grits out. “I don’t want my being President of the Alphas to be something that actually hurts me when I’m no longer in the college bubble.”

“Derek,” Laura says, and her voice finally gentles a little, “you’re going to be fine. The Alphas have bounced back pretty well from Peter’s dubious leadership, right?”

“Yes,” Derek says, trying not to sound _too_ petulant. “But that was fifteen years ago, that’s not even the point. I just - I want this to be a good year.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Laura says, her tone that perfect mix of warmth and irritation, the one that speaks of a big sister’s particular kind of affection. “Now stop freaking out and finish your grocery shopping. You know when you’re stressed you end up buying all of that health-food crap that you never actually eat.”

Derek guiltily sets down the box of shredded wheat he’s been debating and plucks a thing of Frosted Mini-Wheats off the shelf instead. “Shut up,” he mutters as he drops it into his basket, and Laura’s laugh rings through the phone, bright and clear despite the distance.

“You’ll be _fine_ ,” she says again. “I’ll talk to you later. Don’t forget to have fun, okay? College is _supposed_ to be fun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek says, and he says goodbye before hanging up, sighing as he looks down at his grocery cart. Sometimes he really misses having a meal plan. True, the food was often pretty terrible, but at least it meant he didn’t have to deal with the grocery store.

Besides, he’s not sure he’ll have enough time to bother with cooking this year. He’s got a lot on his plate, between his full course load and fraternity stuff, to the point where he’s spent the summer second-guessing whether or not accepting a role as Alpha Nu Alpha’s president was actually the right decision. It’s a heady responsibility on its own, even without factoring in the additional pressure he feels as the infamous Peter Hale’s nephew. Being Peter Hale’s nephew means he _can’t_ screw up; it’ll be worse for him than it would be for anyone else.

Derek’s spent the past few months preparing though, and as far as he can tell, he’s about as ready as it’s possible to be. He just hopes the semester goes smoothly, no unpleasant surprises lying in wait for him.

He eyes the grocery shelves one more time, before putting a second box of Frosted Mini-Wheats into his cart. It’ll be his reward, he tells himself, as he makes his way toward the checkout lanes, for getting through Rush Week in one, hopefully sane, piece.

*

“Because they’re not fun, they’re stupid,” Derek snaps, his eyebrows pulling down into a formidable frown. Across from him, Boyd huffs a quiet laugh and takes a sip of his americano.

“Some people think they’re fun,” Boyd says easily. “And Derek, I love you, man, but you are not my go-to-guy for what qualifies as fun.”

“I don’t want to do the pranks again,” Derek says. “They’re a pain in the ass, they’re distracting, and someone _always_ goes for my car.”

“They’re tradition,” Boyd says. “And maybe you need to face up to the fact that your car is so damn ostentatious that it’s basically _asking_ to be defaced.”

Derek scowls at him, then takes a gulp of his too-hot coffee, wincing a little as he swallows. “I don’t see why you’re so attached to this,” he adds. “It’s the same-old pranks every single year, nobody ever does anything clever or original.”

“Well, maybe this year’s the year,” Boyd says. “Besides, Isaac loves the pranks, and I like him better than I like you. The pranks stay.”

“Fine,” Derek says, because when Boyd decides to be stubborn about something, arguing is about as useful as kicking at a brick wall. “We’ll do the pranks for the pledging process, but I get to pick our first event.”

Boyd’s eyes look decided to amused, peeking at Derek over the rim of his cup as he takes another sip. “You still want to do that whole thing in the woods, don’t you,” he says. “Where we, what, bond with all the prospective freshies and howl at the moon or some shit?”

“Shut up,” Derek says, fighting to keep a frown off his face. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed, if the way Boyd laughs is any indication. “I don’t want to do any _howling_ , I just think it’d be better than the usual drunken shitshow the fraternities throw.”

“Being out in the woods isn’t going to make the guys drink less, Derek,” Boyd says reasonably, but then he shrugs, and Derek knows he’s won. “But, fine, I’m in. I’ll check with the other frats, but I don’t think they’ll have an issue with it.”

“Good,” Derek says, taking another swig of his coffee. “I’ve got a spot picked out and everything.”

“Of course you do,” Boyd says, in the same fond voice Laura uses when she thinks Derek is being ridiculous. Derek isn’t going to let it bother him though, because kicking off rush week with a casual thing in the woods is so much better than the usual boozy mess that starts the process. No guarantees it won’t turn into a little bit of a boozy mess, but Derek does at least intend to stand guard over the beer. Not only will it be a good opportunity to scope out this year’s crop of freshman, but he’s more than happy to refuse a refill to anyone who’s obviously past their limit.

If Laura wants to tell him he’s no fun, fine, but Uncle Peter’s spent years regaling Derek with tales of his time as President of the Alphas. Derek’s paid close attention, because Peter’s stint as President is a pretty comprehensive guide on ‘How to Successfully Run a Fraternity into the Ground,’ so Derek plans to do the opposite of what Peter did.

Keeping at least an eye on the drinks and the freshman is absolutely step one.

*

“All right, I admit it,” Boyd says, hands in his pockets as he surveys the scene before them, “the party in the woods was an awesome idea.”

“ _My_ awesome idea,” Derek says, unable to keep the pleased note out of his voice. “Just like _all_ my ideas are awesome. Which is why we should get rid of - ”

“We’re not getting rid of the pranks,” Boyd says cheerfully. “Nice try though.”

Derek’s still scowling at him when a tipsy freshman wanders up, his smile sweet and a little goofy. “Any chance I could get a refill?” he asks, holding his cup out to Derek. Derek gives him a hard look, trying to gauge just how drunk he is.

“How many have you had?” he demands, taking the cup with some reluctance. 

The kid blinks, looking kind of startled. “Um - I think, just three? Not that many.”

“Yeah, but how quickly did you drink them?” Derek continues. “I could’ve sworn you were just up here - ”

“Give the man another drink,” Boyd interrupts. “Who are you, the keeper of the kegs?” He steals the cup from Derek and fills it up himself, smiling as he hands it over to the kid, who beams back at him.

“What’s your name?” Boyd asks, filling another cup for himself.

“Scott,” the kid says, lifting his cup to his mouth, then stealing a glance at Derek and apparently thinking better of it. “Scott McCall.”

“Well, Scott,” Boyd says, curling his arms around his shoulders and guiding him away from Derek, “let me tell you about Omega Delta Pi, and why it’s widely agreed to be the best frat on campus.”

The grin Boyd shoots over his shoulder manages to be the smuggest thing Derek’s seen all day. Derek rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to the kegs just in time for another freshman to pop up in front of him. Derek knows a freshman when he sees one, but this guy doesn’t seem nearly as young as Scott McCall. He’s got sharp cheekbones and short, neat hair, and he’s wearing the kind of preppy clothes that speak of both money and high school popularity.

“Derek Hale?” he asks, extending a hand. “Jackson Whittemore. I’m interested in pledging the Alphas.”

Derek keeps his poker face on as he reaches out to shake Jackson’s hand. Handsome, rich jocks are basically the bread and butter of the Alphas. It’s not that it’s a _bad_ thing, precisely, and there are plenty of decent guys in the fraternity, but the predictability of it all sometimes grates on Derek. He’s really hoping to leave his own mark on the fraternity, he wants this year to be _different_ , and so far, it’s been the same steady stream of crew-cuts and polos seeking him out.

Still, people can surprise you, so Derek hands Jackson a drink and clears his throat. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself,” he says, and Jackson doesn’t hesitate before launching into a laundry list of his many accomplishments, ranging from a lacrosse captainship to an apparently stellar academic record and an appreciation for fancy vehicles.

It’s nothing Derek hasn’t heard before, and despite his plan to stay sober for the evening, he fills a solo cup to the brim for himself, thinking he’ll need it if Jackson keeps talking for longer than the next two minutes.

*

Jackson Whittemore goes on about himself for a full quarter of an hour, finally leaving when Derek promises to be in touch with him about the Alphas’ next rush event. A handful of guys quickly take his place, and Derek spends the next half hour or so holding court by the kegs.

The stream of prospective pledges finally dies down, and Derek takes the opportunity to do a quick check on the current state of things. The party’s getting to the point where it might start winding down soon, but there are still plenty of people hanging around. It doesn’t look like anybody’s too wasted, which is good.

He sees a guy he was talking to not ten minutes ago laughing with Boyd and Isaac, and he frowns, his mouth tightening. What was his name - Danny? Danny, whom he’d _liked_ , and who he’d figured would definitely accept a bid from the Alphas, considering Jackson had been the one to drag him over, introducing Danny as his best friend from high school. Derek had just assumed that where Jackson went, Danny would follow.

Instead, he’s huddled up with Boyd and Isaac, looking infinitely more relaxed than he’d been when he was talking to Derek. Isaac glances up, catches Derek’s eye and grins, even gives him a little wave.

Derek’s scowl deepens, and he’s already trying to think of a way to steal Danny back when a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“So, are you standing guard?”

Derek turns around to find a guy he hasn’t spoken to yet, hell, one he hasn’t even seen until now. The kid’s got a crooked smile on his face, like he thinks he’s being funny, and this is not the kind of nonsense Derek has time for, not when Boyd and Isaac are busily stealing all of his best pledge prospects.

“Or - hey, are you trying to be one of those British guards?” the kid asks. 

“No,” Derek says.

“Are you sure? Because you’re actually doing a stellar impression of one. Like, I haven’t seen you crack a smile all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?” Derek asks, lifting a single eyebrow before he can think better of it. The kid flushes, his smooth, clear skin turning a delicate pink, and Derek feels suddenly, uncomfortably warm, despite the fact that the night has turned cool and crisp.

“Not in a creepy stalker way,” the kid protests. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a quick, nervous tic. “But my Dad’s a sheriff, and I’ve been taught to be aware of threatening-looking people who hide out in shadows.”

“I’m not hiding out anywhere,” Derek says. “I’m making sure no stupid freshmen get plastered and wander off to do dangerous things that would get us all into trouble.”

“But does that require the shadows?” the kid asks. “Really?” He scrunches his nose, and Derek hates that he finds it kind of - no. Derek isn’t even going to think about words like cute or adorable or sweet. Those words shouldn’t even be in his vocabulary.

“Do you want a drink or not?” he says gruffly, because the sooner this guy leaves, the better.

Most people, provided they are not Boyd or Isaac, turn tail and run when Derek gets snappy, but this kid just grins and holds out his solo cup, which Derek quickly fills.

“Cheerio,” the kid says, going so far as to put on a shitty accent, and he lifts his cup in a mock salute as he leaves. Derek just stares, because this is by far the strangest interaction he’s had all night.

Also the most interesting, in a way that leaves Derek feeling distinctly unsettled and more than a little warm and wanting.

He pointedly doesn’t watch the kid leave, turns instead back to Boyd, Isaac and Danny, who look to be getting along _swimmingly_. This time, it’s Boyd who grins at him, and Derek glares back with every fiber of his being.

It might, he admits to himself, be time to find Jackson and stage an intervention.

*

By the end of the night, Derek knows that Danny is a lost cause, but he’s made his peace with it. There are at least twenty other guys who seemed interested, and Derek knows they’ll pick up more over the course of the next week. He signals a few Alphas over to come help with the clean up, leaving Cal, Ethan and Aiden to take care of the kegs.

To his left, he sees the guy from earlier, the one who did the terrible British accent, hanging all over someone else - Scott, he thinks, the kid he’d hesitated on giving another drink to. They’re clearly good friends, probably roommates, and as Derek watches, Scott dissolves into a fit of giggles, slumping against his friend, who has his own head thrown back in laughter.

Derek can’t help but notice the pale stretch of his throat, the unexpectedly long, lean lines of his body. Even from here he notices his mouth, how red and inviting it looks.

The kid is kind of ridiculously Derek’s type, provided Derek’s willing to overlook the irritating personality and lame jokes. Which Derek’s not willing to do, actually, because he has shit to do this year - a fraternity to run, a thesis to write, and a job to secure before graduation - and he doesn’t need the distraction he can already tell Scott McCall’s friend would be.

That thought in mind, he forces himself to turn away, calling out to Cal, “Make sure you get those kegs loaded up in Aiden’s truck, we can get ten bucks apiece if we turn them back in!”

*

The rush events for the rest of the week split much more firmly down fraternity lines, and as predicted, Derek doesn’t see Danny once. Neither does he encounter Scott McCall or Scott’s mysterious friend, which Derek firmly tells himself is _not_ a disappointment so much as a blessing.

Like most years, the Alphas have a surplus of want-to-be pledges, so Derek and Cal put their heads together and, with the rest of the brothers, whittle their list down to twenty-five.

At their first meeting post-bid acceptances, Derek counts no fewer than twenty-two polo shirts among their prospective members.

Six of those polo shirts come with upturned collars.

Laura laughs long and loud when Derek tells her about it later that night, in pained, unhappy tones, keeping his voice quiet so none of his fraternity brothers overhear him. Aiden _still_ insists the popped collar is the height of fashion, and if he had even an inkling of Derek’s true feelings on the matter, there would be passive aggressive pouting for _days_.

*

By his watch, Derek has exactly four minutes to make it all the way to the far side of campus before he’s late to his nine am lecture. He should be fine, provided he doesn’t catch the damn light on Elm St, but nonetheless, he’s outright jogging toward his car, unwilling to waste any precious extra seconds on walking.

His Camaro looks odd in the early morning sun, and Derek spends a brief moment panicking about scratches or paint before he realizes it’s Saran Wrap.

Somebody has fucking Saran Wrapped his entire car, and Derek has a pretty good idea which organization is responsible.

“You have gotta be fucking _kidding_ me,” he grumbles to himself as he approaches, his jaw clenching as he realizes just how many layers deep the plastic wrap goes. It’s airtight, too, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to risk scratching his paint job in order to tear it off. He doesn’t have _time_ for this.

He scrubs a hand through his hair and looks up just in time to see Jackson crossing the street.

“Whittemore!” he shouts, and Jackson startles badly, almost tripping off the curb. When he sees that it’s Derek though, he perks up and trots right over.

“What’s - oh man, what happened to your car?” he asks, eyes widening as he takes in the plastic wrap.

“Someone’s idea of a hilarious joke,” Derek grits out. “Are you on your way to class?”

“Just breakfast,” Jackson says, leaning forward to get a closer look, letting out a low whistle when he sees just how tightly the car is wrapped.

“Fantastic,” Derek says. “Grab three other pledges and get this cleared off - I need it done by the time I get out of class.”

“What - _really_?” Jackson asks, sounding immensely put out. Derek glares at him.

“Consider it part of your initiation,” he says. “And so help you, if I find a single scratch on my car...”

“Right, got it,” Jackson says glumly. Derek gives him one more stern look before he hoists his backpack more securely onto his shoulder and moves off in a fast walk. Two minutes, then, to get all the way across campus; he’s not going to make it, not even if he was moving at a flat-out run, but hopefully he won’t be more than ten minutes late.

As he’s crossing the East Quad, he digs out his phone and sends Boyd a terse message.

 **the hell** he writes. **did you sic them on my car on purpose?**

Boyd texts back just as Derek’s reached his building, and he checks the message before heading in.

 **nah** , the text reads. **just got a good crop this year - good instincts. better watch out, hale, i think we’ve got some geniuses on our hands**

Which, perfect, Derek thinks, giving his professor the most apologetic look he can muster as he slips into a seat near the door. A pranking mastermind is the very last thing he needs, especially if that’s going to mean waking up to nasty surprises like a Saran Wrapped car every morning.

*

“I bet you _anything_ it was Stilinski,” Jackson’s saying as Derek enters the Alpha house later that afternoon. He’s already holding court with some of the other pledges, something Derek finds not at all surprising.

“It was _obviously_ an Omega,” Jackson continues, “and Danny wouldn’t give anything up, but my roommate’s been going on about how Lahey’s dubbed their frat the Order of Megatron, like it’s the funniest thing in the world and not actually utterly idiotic. And if he thinks it’s hilarious, then Stilinski _definitely_ thinks it is. And how else do you explain the Megatron toy stuck on the windshield?”

“Is my car cleaned off?” Derek interrupts, raising his eyebrows at the cluster of pledges. Jackson goes silent, looking vaguely mutinous, and a boy to his left pipes up.

“Good as new,” the kid says, and Derek squints at him, trying to remember his name. Greenhut, Steinberg, something like that.

“Thank you,” he says, then, after a moment’s deliberation, heaves a sigh and heads over to the group. “There’s an aspect of your initiation that I may have neglected to mention.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Does it have anything to do with us having to unwrap your car this morning?” he asks, a snotty edge to his voice, though he subsides once Derek shoots him a look.

“There is no hazing on this campus,” Derek says, voice serious. “Nothing dangerous or demeaning - we take that very seriously. _I_ take it very seriously.”

“Wasn’t there some shit that went down, like, twenty years ago?” Greenburb breaks in, and Derek makes an irritated noise.

“Yes,” Derek says, forcing the acknowledgement out, “which is why we don’t mess around with anything that might hurt someone, destroy anything, or otherwise damage this fraternity’s reputation.” He gives each of the pledges a hard look, but they’re all nodding along agreeably; a few of them even look relieved, like maybe this whole time they’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop as regards initiation rituals.

“After the crackdown on hazing,” Derek says, “the Omegas and the Alphas started an annual prank war with each other. I was hoping to not have to deal with it this year, but the Omega’s President and VP are, in fact, toddlers, so we’re stuck with playing along.”

“Oh, I can work with this,” Jackson says, a glint already in his eye.

“Don’t embarrass the fraternity,” Derek says as he starts to make his exit. “And the first person to suggest TPing gets thrown out on principle.”

He notices Greemblurb hastily shutting his mouth and at least manages to resist rolling his eyes until he’s actually left the room.

*

Derek has to admit, he’s proud of his pledges for the fish retaliation. He has a feeling Ethan and Aiden might have planted the idea, but still, he’s impressed. Enough so that he shells out for pizza that night, and he and the brothers spend the evening hanging out with the pledges, relaxed and casual, just shooting the shit. _This_ is what Derek likes best about the Alphas, this sense of camaraderie, the feeling of belonging to something greater than yourself.

Granted, he usually has to sit through one too many “I was a star high school athlete” stories for his tastes, but on nights like this, he can’t even mind that too much.

*

It takes awhile for the Omegas to make their next move, long enough that Derek almost starts to wonder if this might be it, if luck has fallen on his side, for once.

He should know better than to get his hopes up by now.

Something shocks him out of a sound sleep in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning. When he blinks blearily at his alarm clock, the neon green numbers read 3:27. His room’s pitch black, his door is still closed, and for a moment, Derek has no idea what’s woken him so suddenly.

Then he hears a thump from downstairs.

He sits straight up, tilting his head as if to hear better. This time, it’s a sound right outside his door that catches his attention. A swish, a crinkle of paper, and Derek slowly pushes his covers down and slides out of his bed, padding over to the door. He briefly debates grabbing for some sort of weapon, just in case there’s an intruder in the hallway, but it’s honestly more likely that Aiden’s snuck in another stray animal of some kind.

Still, Derek opens the door quickly, figuring it can’t hurt to have surprise on his side, just in case, and to his astonishment, he finds a person crouched in front of his door, dragged partially in by the grip he has on Derek's doorknob. The guy's head snaps up, mouth open, and Derek glares at him.

And that’s when the guy lets out a terrific shout.

“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. SAVE YOURSELVES!”

“What the _hell_?” Derek growls, and he grabs the kid’s shirt, yanks him straight up. “It’s three thirty in the morning, what are you - ”

He breaks off abruptly as he realizes who, exactly, he’s staring at. Scott McCall’s friend, the stupidly attractive one, the one Derek doesn’t even have a _name_ for yet. He stumbles forward, the kid’s weight pulling at him, only to have his heel slide sharply across the wood of the hallway, like it’s been _greased_ with something.

Derek goes down hard, dragging the kid with him. He connects sharply enough that it knocks the wind out of him, and he gasps, uselessly trying to suck in some air.

The kid takes the opportunity to shove away from him, and even in the gloom of the hall, Derek can tell how smugly pleased with himself he is. “Surprise!” he chirps, then gets to his feet and takes off down the stairs.

All up and down the hallway, bedroom doors are flying open, and Derek sits up just in time to see nearly every one of his brothers fall victim to their slip-n-slide of a hallway. Only Ethan and Cal, down at the very end of the hall, escape, and Derek jerks his head toward the staircase.

“Get ‘em,” he says hoarsely, his breath not entirely returned to him yet, and both Ethan and Cal take off. Derek can hear the mystery kid’s voice at the bottom of the stairs, urging whoever else he’s working with to “Go, go, go!” though it’s nearly drowned out by the shouts and yelps from his current floor.

He struggles to his feet, then heads downstairs at a quick pace, only to find Ethan and Cal sprawled in a groaning heap at the bottom. Derek reaches for a nearby lamp, and he groans once light floods the room, and he can see the oily sheen of the entire floor.

As if that weren’t enough of a tip off, the entire room reeks of butter.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he grumbles, stepping gingerly onto the floor so he can help Cal up. It’s a mistake; Cal grabs onto his hand harder than Derek’s expecting, and his feet slide out from underneath him again, sending both of them down in a tumble.

“I thought the pledges were supposed to be pranking each other!” Ethan groans. “Holy shit, I hate everything, it’s three thirty in the fucking morning!”

“I may have broken my ass,” Cal says pathetically. “Is that a thing that’s possible? A broken ass?”

“Don’t talk,” Derek orders, gritting his teeth. He pushes himself up, wincing, and doesn’t make the mistake of trying to help Ethan or Cal again. “Just - nobody say anything.”

They’ve all managed to stand upright, taking refuge on the blessedly non-buttered staircase, when Derek hears the basement door fly open, and Ennis, the only brother who was actually willing to take the downstairs bedroom, strolls out.

“Derek?” he says. “I heard - ”

He goes down before any of them can call out a warning, and Derek groans, runs a hand through his hair only to realize it's fucking covered in butter.

Much like Ethan, he hates everything.

“Get everyone up,” he grumbles. “We’re not waiting to clean this shit up, who knows what it’ll do to the wood.”

“But three thirty in the _morning_ ,” Ethan whines, only stopping when Derek shoots him a look.

It takes them _hours_ , the process made infinitely longer by the fact that no one seems to be capable of staying on their feet for more than five minutes at a time. The butter is everywhere, and Derek gets another nasty surprise when he goes for the faucet to fill up a bucket and finds it coated in what has to be Vaseline. Oh God, he _hopes_ it’s Vaseline.

At around eight am, once they’re just about finished up and everyone’s duking it out over who gets to shower first, Jackson bursts in, his phone held out in front of him.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” he says, holding it out to Derek.

There’s a video. Of _course_ there’s a video. Derek takes one look at it, notes the angle, and with a furious bout of swearing stomps over to the mantle, where he finds a small, cheap camera, a light on it flashing red, signaling that it’s recording. Derek thumbs it off, briefly thinks about smashing it, but tosses it into an end table drawer instead.

“I want your retaliation to be sensational, do you understand me?” he says to Jackson, whose face is all kinds of contorted in a clear attempt not to laugh. The video on his phone is still playing; Derek can hear Ennis swearing, the particular string of curses that had marked his third spectacular fall.

Jackson nods, hurriedly shoving his phone into his pocket and making for the door.

Derek orders a couple juniors to do a quick round and double check that all of the doorknobs have been wiped off, while he heads upstairs to grab a shower of his own, if there’s even any hot water left.

*

The Alpha pledges’ next prank is dying Scott McCall’s hair pink

Derek is not impressed.

*

Especially when the next thing they get hit with is stinkbombs.

Derek thought the butter was bad, but no, the stinkbombs are the worst thing to ever happen to him, and a prank this bad simply cannot go unanswered.

It takes a week, but luckily the weather cooperates, and they’re able to leave the windows open almost the whole time in order to air out the house. Derek’s main concern is that they’re inviting another stinkbomb attack, but the Omegas, at the very least, seem to be respecting the prank war tradition of giving the other side time to respond before launching a new attack.

Derek makes use of the time by gathering information. He meets with the Alpha pledges in the back corner of the library, on the fourth floor, where no one ever goes.

“All right,” he says, folding his arms across his chest imposingly and looking sternly out at the freshmen and handful of sophomores gathered around him. “What can you tell me about the Omega pledges.”

“It’s Stilinski,” Jackson says promptly. “He’s the one coming up with all of these, I guarantee you.”

Derek huffs a sigh; it’s not the first time he’s heard that name, but he’s not sure why Jackson’s so intent on assigning all of this mayhem to one person.

“Who the hell is Stilinski?” Derek asks, and that’s when Greenberg, whose name Derek’s finally got a handle on, leans across and shows him his laptop.

“That is,” he says, and Derek’s eyes widen, because on the screen is a freeze frame of the infamous butter video, and right there, bolting down the stairs, is the same kid Derek had found outside his door. Scott McCall’s friend, the guy Derek’s been thinking about far more than he’d like this semester.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Greenberg says. “He sits in front of me in Finstock’s Econ class.”

“Trust me, it’s all him,” Jackson says. “Danny’s brilliant, but he isn’t devious, and God knows McCall isn’t.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Derek murmurs, eyes fixed to the screen. “Greenberg,” he says sharply, and Greenberg jolts a little, looks at him expectantly. “I want you to find out everything you can about him, you understand?”

“Should I talk to him?” Greenberg asks. “I mean, he might know I’m an Alpha - wouldn’t he be suspicious?”

Derek doesn’t see that being a problem; Greenberg is absolutely one of those guys who slips right under the radar, who you have to look twice before even noticing him. Still, it’s good sense, so Derek puts his hand on Greenberg’s shoulder and gives a firm squeeze.

“Just pay attention to him,” he says. “Keep an ear out for any new pranks he’s planning, see if you can figure out an opening for us to get back at him.”

“Sure,” Greenberg says, looking pleased at his newfound responsibility. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good,” Derek says. “Then let’s try to see if we can figure out something better than pink hair for our next attack.”

Every pledge before him flinches, which, they _should_ feel bad. Dying one pledge’s hair pink is nearly as terrible as TPing.

*

**you willing to concede victory yet?** Boyd texts, when it’s one week post-stinkbombs, and the Alphas have yet to respond.

 **oh, we’re just getting started** Derek replies.

That’s the day Greenberg bursts in, telling Derek all about how next Saturday, Stiles and Scott will be housesitting for the Omegas, no one but them in the frat house.

Derek grins outright, his mind already working.

Time, he thinks, to call in some help.

*

Jackson’s dating one of the girls pledging their sister sorority, Delta Alpha Kappa, and she very kindly agrees to help them out, in exchange for Derek introducing her to the head of the Math department.

“Really?” he asks, curious despite himself. “That’s your price?”

She smiles, showy and fake. “I have big plans for my time at this school,” she says firmly. “And I happen to know that you’re one of the few students Harris actually likes.”

‘Likes’ isn’t necessarily the word Derek would use, but it’s close enough.

“Sure,” he agrees, then, “You know the plan?”

Lydia just rolls her eyes, but it’s oddly reassuring, like she’s confident enough about what she’s doing to be dismissive.

Derek watches from behind a tree while Lydia and her friend Allison step up to the Omegas’ front door. The boys let them in without question, and Derek pointedly does _not_ think about the way his chest tightens when he sees the way Stiles is looking at Lydia.

He counts to twenty once the door closes, then jogs over to the front step, carefully testing the handle. Unlocked, just like Lydia had promised to leave it. He presses his ear to the front door, listening, and when he can’t hear anything, he slowly presses it open and slips silently inside.

There are voices coming from the kitchen, and Derek creeps closer, waiting for an acceptable cue. He grins when he hears a squawk of outrage, quickly followed by the metallic clang of a pair of handcuffs.

“Hey! Are you - what - you liars!” And that’s Stiles, pissy and stunned.

“Well, we didn’t lie about the dinner,” he hears Lydia say, then Allison chimes in, “We _did_ lie about being out of the staples though.”

Derek gives it another couple moments, and then he hears Lydia say, “For Derek,” which is the best cue he could have asked for. He steps smoothly around the corner, gaze flickering around, taking in the scene before him, Stiles firmly cuffed to the staircase, while Scott’s attached to the radiator. Neither one of them is going anywhere.

“Thank you, ladies,” he says, with a mock tip of his hat. Stiles groans, gives another half-hearted tug against his cuffs.

“You are an actual caricature of a real human being, do you know that?” Stiles says. “Seriously, dude, you’re like the big bad British wolf or something, always lurking in corners and _glowering_ \- ”

Just for that, Derek grins at him, big and wide, the same smile, coincidentally, that he puts on when he’s flirting. For some reason, it seems appropriate.

Stiles makes a noise, deep in his throat, and Derek feels his grin stretch wider.

“My, what big canines you have,” Stiles mumbles.

“Allison, Lydia,” Derek says, without looking away from Stiles, whose cheeks are steadily turning a flushed, pretty pink. “If you would be so kind as to show the pledges in?”

Lydia hands him the key to the handcuffs as she passes; Derek watches her and Allison go, then glances down at the key, thoughtfully. Stiles is hardly in an ideal position for what he’s planning next, so Derek steps forward, caging Stiles in completely. He’s pressed so close that he feels rather than hears Stiles’ inhale, and in a quick, fluid movement, he unlocks the cuff Lydia had attached to the bannister.

“Is this a joke?” Stiles asks, his voice more than a bit choked. His fingers flex and curl, like he's already anticipating being free.

“Nope,” Derek replies, then stretches up as higher as he can reach, forcing Stiles’ arm up with him. When he reattaches the cuff, it’s way above Stiles’ head, leaving him precariously on his toes, and that much less able to squirm once Derek gets to stage two.

“Oh, dude,” Stiles says. “This is just _mean_. This constitutes bodily harm, I’m pretty sure - I could dislocate my shoulder here! Easily!”

It’s a plea for sympathy and nothing more, because there’s no way this is putting any actual strain on Stiles’ arm, not if he behaves himself and doesn’t try to tug his way to freedom.

“Don’t worry,” Derek says, stepping just far enough away that he isn’t directly in Stiles’ personal bubble again. “You won’t be like that for long.” He’s grinning again; he kind of can’t help it. It feels _good_ to get one up on the kid who’s been driving his whole fraternity so crazy. More than that, this is the closest he’s ever been to Stiles in the daylight, and it turns out the kid’s eyes are this amazing, rich brown, almost amber in the morning sunlight.

Derek’s always had a thing for brown eyes.

He forces himself to step away, before Stiles catches him outright staring. There are water cups to be overseen, after all, and a big part of Derek wants to let Stiles stew for awhile, before putting part two of his plan into action.

*

It takes a couple hours, but their prank goes off without a hitch. Derek breaks away from helping once the entire living room is packed tight with cups, and the pledges have just started on the kitchen. It’s smaller, and Derek figures it won’t take more than forty minutes to complete, which means it’s time to start on the Stiles-specific portion of his plan.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Derek drawls, enjoying the fact that he so clearly has the upperhand here.

“How do you know my name?” Stiles demands, surprisingly mouthy for someone in his position.

“You don’t think I’d take the time to find out exactly who’s been masterminding all these ridiculous pranks?” Derek says easily. He tosses the duct tape from one hand to the other, watches Stiles’ eyes track it.

“Masterminding!” Stiles says. “That is false - _completely_ off base - I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about - ”

“Oh, I know an instigator when I see one,” Derek says.

The temptation to lean in, to put one hand just above Stiles’ shoulder, to maybe set the other one on his hip or at his elbow, is way, way too strong. Derek is not going to be the kind of guy who takes advantage in that way, so instead, he grabs the edge of the duct tape and unrolls a long strip.

“Okay, _seriously_ , man,” Stiles says warily, “what is that for?”

“Why don’t I just show you?” Derek asks.

“No need, actually, I’m fine not knowing,” Stiles says, voice high and tight, but Derek ignores him. He starts on Stiles’ wrist, since that’s up and out of the way, sets to winding the tape around it good and tight, though not tight enough that it runs any risk of cutting off Stiles’ circulation.

Stiles quickly catches on to Derek’s intentions, and as soon as he does he starts squirming and pulling away, as if he has any actual chance of escape.

“I’m allergic to duct tape!” he protests at one point, and Derek stills, halfway through wrapping his arm.

“Right,” he snorts. “Try a more believable story next time.”

“It’s true!” Stiles yelps. “Scott, tell him!”

Derek glances back at Scott, who’s sprawled pretty comfortably on the floor, though he looks a bit wary when Derek’s gaze lands on him.

“Well?” Derek asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Is he really allergic to duct tape?”

Scott looks from Derek, to Stiles, to Derek again. “Are you going to tape me to the bannister, too?”

“That depends,” Derek says. “You gonna tell me the truth?”

“Not even a little bit allergic,” Scott says, and Stiles _howls_.

“You traitor!” he calls, as Derek gets back to work.

“Hey, I got my hair dyed pink for you!” Scott protests. “You’re on your own for this one.”

*

Derek calls Jackson and Greenberg over to hold Stiles’ feet, after a well-timed kick nearly catches him in the balls, but with their help the duct taping goes quickly, and Derek finishes just as the last of the pledges file out, the kitchen now completely filled with cups of water, but for a narrow path from the bannister to the back door.

“Well, this has been fun,” Derek says, looking smugly at the sight Stiles makes. He’s totally trapped, taped securely from the neck down, his feet no longer even touching the floor. Stiles’ protests and complaints have finally subsided, and now he just glares mutinously at Derek, his jaw firmly set in a pout.

It mostly makes Derek want to think of those words that he’s barred from his vocabulary.

Derek does a quick, final check, just to make sure the tape isn’t cutting into Stiles anywhere, and once he’s satisfied that he’s not going to be leaving him in a position that’s _too_ uncomfortable, he leans in close, though not quite close enough to touch. He can smell the faint scent of Stiles’ cologne though, and when Stiles blinks up at him, he can see the different shades of brown swirling through his irises.

His eyelashes, Derek notes, are absurdly long, and unless he’s much mistaken, Stiles’ gaze drops very briefly to Derek’s mouth, a development that makes an annoyingly large part of Derek want to celebrate. 

“Tell Boyd I look forward to receiving his surrender,” Derek says, and to his secret delight, Stiles’ eyes narrow.

“We have not yet begun to fight,” he says, with as much dignity as he can muster.

Derek laughs; it’s a hard threat to take seriously when its giver is taped to a staircase, but God damn, let it never be said that Stiles Stilinski doesn’t have spunk.

The warmth that curls through Derek at that thought is dangerous, and he quickly takes his leave, with no more than a final mocking wave to both Stiles and Scott. He jogs back to his car, parked two blocks over, still smiling as he slides behind the steering wheel.

Whatever Stiles comes up with in retaliation, and Derek has no doubt that there _will_ be retaliation, he has a hard time believing it’s going to top this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the pranks involves the use of restraints, though in a non-sexual manner; Allison and Lydia handcuff Scott and Stiles to a radiator and staircase, and Derek then duct tapes Stiles to the bannister.
> 
> ***
> 
> I do have a tumblr, if anyone feels like hanging out. You can find me [here!](http://sidekickinit.tumblr.com) I have yet to understand how tumblr actually works, but I'd like to start figuring it out a bit more, hence the self-pimping. Please feel free to come say hi!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies FOREVER for the wait on this one, guys! Ugh, I can't believe it's actually been two months, that is ridiculous. Life was busy, I had a bad cold for awhile, and it turns out writing Stiles comes way more naturally to me than Mr. Derek Hale. Thanks so much for being patient though, and I hope you this installment doesn't disappoint! <3

A week after the duct tape, Derek is still waiting for retribution.

“He has to be planning _something_ , don’t you think?” he mutters, the question ostensibly directed at Cal, who’s the only other person in the Den’s living room right now.

“Who?” Cal asks distractedly, not even looking up from his textbook.

“Stilinski!” Derek says. “I taped him to a staircase, there’s no way he’s just going to let that go, right?”

When Cal finally does glance Derek’s way, he looks equal parts exasperated and amused. “You know, for someone who claims to hate this whole prank war thing so much, you’re kind of obsessed.”

“That is not true,” Derek says sternly. “I am not obsessed.”

Cal snorts, the very definition of an unattractive sound. “You spent almost an hour yesterday grilling Greenberg on Stilinski,” he says. “And how much time, exactly, have you devoted to scouring the web for new pranks?”

Derek avoids flushing through sheer will power, his lips pressed tightly together because he refuses to dignify such an outrageous accusation with an actual answer. Cal, of course, takes in his expression and laughs.

“I’m not saying it’s a _bad_ thing,” he continues. “It’s good to see you into something that’s not classes for once.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, though there’s not enough heat in it to be an actual threat. “We’re not talking about this anymore.”

There’s a definite smirk on Cal’s face, but he only shrugs and goes back to his reading, leaving Derek to his brooding.

*

“He’s cooking up something awful, isn’t he? You owe it to me to tell me, Boyd, we’re _friends_. I deserve at least some advance warning.”

Boyd smirks, and out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Isaac mark something down on his napkin. 

“I stay out of it,” Boyd says easily. “Like a President of the fraternity should.”

“I don’t have a choice!” Derek exclaims. “He’s not just giving the guys pledging hell, he’s focusing on the whole fraternity!”

“The kid thinks big, I like that in an Omega,” Boyd says, sounding satisfied. 

“You gonna finish your fruit?” Isaac asks.

Derek slides his bowl over with a grumble, and the three sit in silence for a bit, while Isaac eats the blackberries that Derek ignored and Boyd picks up his phone and starts texting someone.

“I just think maybe you should keep an eye on Stilinski,” Derek says. “Because if he’s going to try to _top_ what we pulled, he might - what are you _writing_ , Lahey?”

Isaac freezes, looking just the slightest bit guilty, and Derek takes advantage of it to snatch the napkin away from him. There’s a neat line of tally marks across one edge, totaling up eleven little lines.

“What is this?” Derek asks, frowning, and Boyd snorts.

“Keeping track of how many times Derek brings up Stilinski?” he asks, and Isaac nods, a smile pulling at his own mouth.

“Excuse me?” Derek says, tossing the napkin down like it’s burned him. “That’s - I haven’t brought him up eleven times!”

“Well, it was hard to take an official count,” Isaac says, leaning back in his chair, the better to let his long legs stretch out underneath the table. “Because you’ve pretty much spent the entire meal talking about him. But I counted it as an individual instance of there had been a change in conversation topic before you circled back around, or if there had been a pause of longer than a minute before you started talking about him again.”

Derek splutters out some nonsense sounds for a few moments, which only makes the amusement on Boyd’s and Isaac’s faces increase.

“Hey, it’s fine by me,” Isaac says, giving Derek’s foot a friendly tap under the table. “He’s smart, he’s funny - he’s easy on the eyes.”

“Nope,” Derek says flatly. “Nope. No.”

“Oh, come on,” Boyd says with a big, slow smile. “You do this every time you fall for someone. You’re all in or nothing, and when you’re all in, you can’t shut up about them.”

“At least it’s not your TA this time,” Isaac says, reaching out and plucking a french fry off of Derek’s plate.

Derek gives him the darkest look he can possibly muster. “I’d move your hand if I were you,” he says, “before I put my fork through it.”

Isaac hurriedly pulls his hand away, putting both of them in his lap, safely out of Derek’s sight.

“Hey, man, it’s cool,” Boyd says. “He’d be good for you, I think.”

“We’re not talking about this anymore,” Derek says abruptly, gathering up his own crumpled napkin, Isaac’s tally-marked one, and the straw wrappers littering the table, piling it all onto his empty plate. “Where’s the waiter?”

He flags down their waiter to ask for his check and ignores Isaac mouthing the word ‘denial’ to Boyd, as well as Boyd’s answering chuckle.

He is not in _denial_. Just because he thinks Stiles is attractive or finds him _interesting_ \- that doesn’t mean he likes him! Because he emphatically does not like Stiles, Stiles is a pain in his ass, Stiles is the _worst_ , Stiles is...

That’s when Derek groans and drops his head to the table because that line of thinking sounds a whole lot like he’s trying to convince himself.

Isaac makes a sympathetic noise and reaches over to pat him on the back, making Derek lament the fact that the waiter just walked away with his fork.

*

“Derek!”

In the handful of months that Jackson’s spent pledging the Alphas, he seems to have picked up some sort of special radar where Derek is concerned; he’s constantly alert to Derek’s presence, and he’s forever calling him over, demanding his time for a consultation on his class schedule or for Derek’s opinion on whether or not he should stick with the lacrosse team, even though the coach doesn’t have him starting this semester.

It would be a lot less annoying if Derek liked Jackson just a little bit more.

“Derek!”

Derek sighs to himself and briefly debates sneaking upstairs to his room, where he can close the door and pretend he’s not in. Jackson enters the living room before he reaches a decision though, lighting up when he sees Derek.

“Derek, hey!” he says, throwing himself down into the armchair opposite Derek’s seat on the couch. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Go ahead,” Derek says, reluctantly shutting his Physics book and putting it to the side.

“Did you know the brothers have been making the pledges do their laundry?” Jackson demands.

“I - yes,” Derek says, taken aback. “That’s kind of a tradition of ours.”

“It’s hazing,” Jackson says, sitting on the edge of his seat in a way that’s almost aggressive. “And isn’t Alpha Nu Alpha firmly against all forms of hazing?”

There’s a headache starting to form just behind Derek’s eyes, and he’s entirely sure the reason for it is sitting right in front of him. “Yes, we’re against hazing,” he agrees. “But the laundry thing is harmless, Jackson.”

“It’s totally hypocritical,” Jackson says firmly, a note of satisfaction creeping into his tone, like he thinks he’s already won. “Making us do everyone’s laundry - that’s taking advantage of the system - ”

“Oh my God, _Jackson_ ,” a voice breaks in, and Derek turns around to find Cal standing in the doorway, looking almost amused. “Are you serious right now?”

“It’s _clearly_ a violation of - ”

“It’s harmless,” Cal says, echoing Derek’s earlier statement. “And I would be taking your complaint a whole hell of a lot more seriously if you hadn’t waited for laundry duty to cycle through every single other pledge. I keep tabs, buddy, and I didn’t hear a peep out of you about this until it was your turn.”

Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the outraged look on Jackson’s face.

“He’s got a point,” Derek says a moment later, once he’s gotten himself under control.

“Besides,” Cal continues, flashing Jackson a wide grin, “the rest of the pledges would have your head if you weaseled your way out of laundry duty. Suck it up and wash some clothes. And make sure you get unscented fabric softener - I have very sensitive skin.”

Derek manages to hold in his laughter until Jackson hurries off, looking suitably chastened.

“That little shit,” Cal says. He sounds surprisingly fond, though he’s shaking his head as he steals the chair that Jackson’s just vacated. “Acting like he was fighting the good fight for the benefit of the entire pledge class.”

“And on that note,” Derek says, scooping up his pile of books, “I have a bag of laundry to get together.”

Cal’s delighted laughter follows him all the way up the stairs.

*

“What the hell kind of detergent did you _use_?” Cal demands, standing in nothing but his boxers as he glares Jackson down. His usually pale skin is red and blotchy, fingernail marks clear from where he’s been scratching at his chest and sides.

“Regular detergent!” Jackson exclaims. “The stuff I always use!”

“Well, you must’ve done something weird, because everyone who wore any of the clothes you washed spent the entire day fucking _miserable_ ,” Ethan says; his torso is pink, too, though it doesn’t look like he’s been scratching quite as vigorously as Cal.

“Did you do something to get back at us for laundry duty?” Cal demands, and Jackson’s eyes go wide.

“What - no! Of course not!”

“Poor form, dude,” Ennis says, a deep, deep frown drawing his brows together.

“I _didn’t_ \- ”

“That’s enough,” Derek breaks in, already tired of the sniping. “I’m sure it was an accident,” he continues, even though he isn’t entirely certain; Jackson seems sincere, but he’d been full of complaints yesterday. Still, Derek would like to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Everyone, rewash your own clothes,” he says. “Jackson, don’t think this means you’re off the hook for future laundry assignments.”

Jackson looks positively mutinous, but Derek isn’t actually sure if it’s due to the promise of having to do more laundry, or the fact that all of the brothers had been so quick to accuse him of messing up their clothes on purpose.

Before Derek can pull him aside for a quick chat, Jackson’s stomping out the front door, muttering something about his roommate under his breath. Derek just sighs, rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes. He should probably be more irritated about this, but as of this morning, he still had a few clean t-shirts, and so he hasn’t touched the clothes Jackson had left with him.

Mostly, he just wants the pledging process to be over, so things can get back to normal and he can finally have some peace and quiet again. Thank God tomorrow is Sunday; he doesn’t have anything to do but write a paper, and oddly enough, that sounds almost relaxing to him right now.

*

“Hey, Derek!”

Derek’s eleven pages in to his twenty-page paper, and he barely registers Ethan’s shout at first, too intent on locating the quote he’d read maybe twenty minutes ago, one that he knows will perfectly support his argument, if only he can _find_ it again.

“Derek!” Ethan calls again, breaking Derek’s concentration. He looks up with a scowl, and Ethan holds his hands up in an ‘I come in peace’ sort of gesture, hovering near the front door. “Your pizza’s here, dude.”

“Don’t call me that,” Derek says shortly. “And I didn’t order a pizza.”

“I’ve got an order for a Derek Hale,” he hears a voice chime in, and then that same voice rattles off a phone number.

Derek frowns, but sets down his book in order to get up and make his way to the front door.

“That’s my number, but I didn’t order a pizza,” he says. The pizza guy huffs a sigh, mouth set in a thin line. Derek notes his purple shirt, the Pete’s Pizza logo scrawled across the right side of his chest. It’s been weeks since he’s ordered anything from them, but they definitely have him in the system - they probably just pulled up the wrong account.

“You’re sure?” the pizza guy asks. “Is there anyone else here who might’ve used your name and number?”

“I highly doubt it,” Derek says, but he’s already reaching for his wallet. “Here, I’ve got it, it’s fine. I’m sure it’ll get eaten.”

That gets him a grateful smile, at least, and Derek throws in a tip as well. It’s good pizza, no sense in letting it go to waste, and it’d be pretty shitty to stiff the delivery guy when he’s just doing his job.

“Here,” Derek says, handing the box to Ethan. “Save me a couple slices, but the rest of it is up for grabs.”

“Yesssss,” Ethan says, eyes lighting up. If Derek had to guess, he’d say ninety percent of that pizza is going to end up claimed by Ethan.

Derek’s just settling into his paper once more when the doorbell rings again. This time it’s Aiden who answers, and Derek pointedly tunes out the conversation, too intent on figuring out how to segue into his next paragraph.

He’s interrupted yet again when Aiden comes over, drops a white paper bag in front of him. “Here,” he says, when Derek looks up at him. “I went ahead and paid the guy for your sandwich. You owe me ten bucks.”

“What?” Derek asks, after a beat.

“Ten bucks,” Aiden says, holding his hand out.

“I didn’t _order_ a sandwich,” Derek says.

Aiden frowns, looking deeply skeptical. “The delivery guy had your name and number,” he says.

“So did the pizza guy,” Derek says, his frustration starting to leak through. “I haven’t ordered anything though.”

“Do you think - ” Aiden starts to say, but he’s interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. This time, Derek’s the one to answer the door, and sure enough, there’s an order of chicken wings for him, from a place he’s never even heard of before.

Paying the guy for the damn wings is the quickest way to get rid of him, but Derek’s starting to feel pissed off by the time he closes the door.

“I do think,” he agrees, finishing Aiden’s unspoken thought. “This has the Omegas written all over it.”

“It has Stilinski written all over it,” Aiden says, and Derek’s only response is a grunt, because he’s spent the past couple days doing a decent job of keeping his mind _off_ Stiles, too distracted by Jackson and his laundry debacle and his paper to spare any thought for the smart-mouthed, pretty-eyed thorn in his side.

The doorbell rings again less than ten minutes later; it’s another pizza, and the only thing that keeps Derek from refusing to claim it is guilt over the thought of the business losing money. There might also be a sliver of concern for the reputation of the Alphas; it’s not going to look good for them if word gets around that their fraternity is embroiled in some juvenile prank war that’s costing local businesses revenue.

“How many orders do you think Stilinski’s placed?” Aiden asks, sounding slightly wary, even as he’s eyeing the pizza that Derek’s set down on the nearby coffee table, so hot it’s still steaming.

“I don’t know that I actually want to think about that,” Derek grits out.

He finally loses his patience when delivery guy number six shows up right on the heels of number five - a second sandwich, and yet another pizza.

“Who the hell is calling these in?” Derek demands, voice rising a little louder than it probably should, but it’s been almost an hour since this started, and he hasn’t been able to make any more progress on his paper. “Don’t you have caller ID? What’s the phone number?”

“Uh, I don’t actually have that information,” delivery guy number six says. “Just the phone number the caller gave us - which is yours.”

“Yeah, but it’s not me that’s doing the ordering,” Derek snaps, “so what’s your caller ID say?”

“I can check when I get back to the shop,” the other guy offers, and Derek takes a deep breath, tries to rein in his temper.

“Great, thanks,” he says, his words clipped, then reaches for his wallet and hands each of them a ten.

“Hey, man, you don’t have to pay us for something you didn’t order,” number six says, but Derek waves him off.

“It’s fine, it’ll get eaten,” he says. “Just - if any more orders come in for me, disregard them, okay?”

“Sure thing,” says number five with a grin, and the two of them go jogging back to their cars.

Derek settles down just inside the front door, figuring its pointless to even attempt any more work on his paper just yet.

*

The deliveries keep coming, every ten minutes like clockwork, and Derek’s handing number nine the payment when his phone finally buzzes. He answers the call with a snapped, “Hello?”

“Caller ID comes up as a payphone,” the delivery guy from before says, and Derek’s eyes narrow. He should have guessed that, honestly; Stiles is too clever to call from a cell phone, anything that the restaurants could trace back to him.

“Thanks,” Derek says.

“Good luck,” the guy says cheerfully.

Derek hangs up, darts back inside just long enough to grab his jacket before he sets out for campus. There’s a payphone near the library, he knows; it’s as good a place as any to start.

He walks quickly, something like anticipation pulsing through him. He doesn’t know what, exactly, he’s going to do to Stiles when he finds him, but he’s going to make him pay for disrupting Derek’s meant-to-be-quiet-and-peaceful afternoon.

Stiles is right where Derek expects him to be, holed up in the phone booth around the back corner of the library. Derek picks up his pace as he approaches, adrenaline already starting to pump through him at just the _sight_ of Stiles, but before he can reach the payphone, Stiles looks up and spots him.

Even from this distance, Derek can see the way his face flickers from shock straight to panic, and he drops the phone, leaving it to hang uselessly from its cord while he grabs for his jacket and takes off.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, though he doesn’t think for a second it’ll get him to stop. It doesn’t matter - Derek breaks into a run as well, and he knows right away that Stiles hasn’t got a chance in hell of getting away from him. He’s quick, but he’s no varsity athlete.

He’s steadily gaining on Stiles, fifty feet, then forty, then thirty, and when he’s no more than a few yards behind him, Stiles glances over his shoulder, his expression positively alive with mischief, and calls out, “You should be thanking me! I very thoughtfully provided your whole frat with lunch!”

That is it, that is _it_. Derek digs deep and closes the gap between them, then full-on tackles Stiles, dragging him right down to the ground.

*

Somewhere between being preoccupied with the memory of Stiles’ body, long and lean and fucking perfect, and the realization that he just made another fraternity’s pledge _take off all his clothes_ , Derek starts to panic. At first it’s a low-level thrum, an unpleasant flush that starts at the tips of his ears, then quickly spreads to the back of his neck.

He’s got Stiles’ clothes bundled up under his arm - still warm from Stiles’ skin, though as soon as that thought crosses his mind, Derek has to tamp down the urge to drop them in the nearest trash can. He’s pretty sure demanding that Stiles strip was creepy enough, he doesn’t need to be thinking about how warm and _soft_ Stiles’ hoodie is, how if he brought it up to his nose and breathed in deep, it would probably still smell like him -

“Oh God,” Derek mutters, forcibly redirecting his thoughts, clinging to the first thing that pops into his head, which is how, come tomorrow morning, he’s probably going to be dragged in front of the honor court for sexual harassment or something.

He’s in full-fledged panic mode by the time he makes it back to the Den, where he finds two more delivery guys waiting on the porch. Derek digs out his wallet and blindly thrusts a twenty at each of them, before swooping up both bags - Chinese and Indian this time - and hurling himself inside.

“Ooh, I smell curry!” Ennis calls out, and Derek hands the food off to the nearest brother, then hightails it upstairs to his room, since he’d rather hyperventilate in private.

He thinks about calling Laura. He _should_ , probably, since she can be generally relied upon to talk him down from a ledge. He does not, however, relish telling her exactly what he’s done, which is why he logs onto Skype instead, breathing out a rush of relief when he sees that Erica’s online.

He doesn’t even think about it, just presses ‘call’ and waits.

“Bonjour, mon petit chou!” Erica chirps, flashing him a white-toothed smile as soon as the video kicks in.

“You’re in Germany,” Derek says.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to France next weekend, so I’m brushing up on my language skills,” she says. “What’s up? You look freaked.”

It’s unfair, Derek thinks - not for the first time - how easily she’s able to read him.

“I... may have done something stupid,” he admits, and Erica’s eyes narrow, her expression gone instantaneously shrewd.

It makes Derek think of his mother, who’s always had a knack for knowing exactly what her children are up to.

“Does this have anything to do with that Omega pledge you’ve been pining over?”

“What?” Derek asks, then repeats it, because once simply isn’t enough to communicate the full measure of the what-the-fuckery of her assumption. “ _What_?”

Erica offers him a smug, close-lipped grin. “Boyd says you can’t stop talking about him.”

“You - he - Boyd is full of _shit_ ,” Derek splutters. “And have I told you lately how much I regret ever introducing the two of you?”

“No,” Erica says, a throaty chuckle lurking underneath her words, “but then, I’ve been out of the country, so. Give me the deets, Derek, did you finally do him?”

“He called every delivery place in town and placed an order under my name,” Derek says, choosing to ignore Erica’s oh-so-smart remarks. “I caught him outside the library, using a payphone.”

“And?” Erica prompts.

“And I tackled him.”

“ _And_?”

“...made him give me all his clothes,” Derek finishes, very, very quietly.

Erica’s eyes go wide, and then she lets out an actual hoot of laughter, one which dissolves into a cackle.

“Oh my God,” she says, “it’s like you’re starring in your very own romantic comedy. I can’t believe I’m missing seeing this in person.”

“Erica, I took his _clothes_ ,” Derek exclaims. “He’s probably reporting me _as we speak_ for hazing - ”

“Derek - ”

“ - or harassment - ”

“Oh, for - ”

“ - probably both - ”

“ _Derek_.”

It’s Erica’s amusement, heavily tinged with exasperation, that gets Derek to shut up. She’s looking at him fondly when he directs his gaze back to her, even though she’s got an eyebrow raised in judgment.

“Get a grip,” she says - nicely, considering it’s her. “Deep breath, okay?”

Derek obeys out of reflex, dragging in a breath so big it’s almost painful. After holding it for a few seconds, he exhales, and with the air goes some of the tightness in his chest.

“You guys are in a _prank_ war,” Erica reminds him. “If he’s even half as into all this as you are, all he’s going to think about is getting revenge, not reporting you to the administration. Jesus, worst-case-scenario much?”

“Shut up,” Derek grumbles, although he has to admit it’s sensible logic.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Erica says with a smile. “You’ll be fine, Derek. Lucky for you, you’ve got the prank war to act as a cover for the fact that you totally just wanted to see him naked.”

“ _Erica_ ,” Derek snaps. “That’s not even - it’s not - ” He breaks off abruptly, recognizing just how unconvincing his protests are. He thinks his cheeks might be turning pink, and he deliberately keeps his eyes off the corner of the screen where his own face is, focuses only on Erica’s instead, which is looking positively delighted at the moment.

“This is adorable,” she says. “You should totally go for it.”

“I am _not_ interested,” Derek grits out. “He’s an obnoxious little shit, he’s like a goddamn mosquito that just won’t go away. Besides, he hates me.” That last point, of course, being the actual problem.

“Uh huh,” Erica says. “Please, he’s basically pulling your pigtails. And look, even if you do think he’s that annoying, which, I think you’re just a big liar, you’re clearly still _into_ him, like, as a piece of ass.”

“ _Erica_.”

“I’m just saying! If you’re not going to make a move, then at least find someone who looks like him and get it out of your system. It’s about time you got laid anyhow - Boyd says there hasn’t been anyone since _Kate_ \- ”

Derek cuts her off right there, because this is no-go territory, and she should know better. “You were not even _here_ for Kate,” he says crisply, “therefore you do not get to have an opinion about the Kate situation.”

Erica makes a face, but she doesn’t push him on it, which means, no doubt, that Boyd’s told her the whole mortifying story.

The silence between them isn’t quite strained, but it is a little bit awkward, until Erica finally sighs and leans in closer to her monitor.

“I just want to see you happy, Derek,” she says. “Boyd does, too.”

“I am happy,” Derek says, the response coming automatically. “I’m good, Erica.”

It’s true, for the most part. He’s maybe more content than he is happy, but that’s an awful lot like splitting hairs for Derek’s tastes.

“Yeah,” is all Erica says, clearly not interested in pressing the point right now. Instead she grins, mischief darkening her eyes. “So, this Stiles guy - what’d he look like sans clothes? Good body?”

Derek closes his computer, abruptly ending the call.

Erica is still laughing when he calls her back two minutes later.

*

The talk with Erica helps, but Derek still spends the next few days constantly paranoid, worried each time his phone rings that this time, it’s going to be the Dean, wanting to speak to him about his totally inappropriate behavior.

The call never comes; in fact, Derek hears through the grapevine that Stiles has struck again, but has limited his evil genius to upside-downing Jackson’s bedroom furniture.

Derek hates that he thinks that’s clever, that Stiles always manages to think so much bigger than everyone else in the room. He does have to give some props to Jackson, who’s been bragging to everyone that he’d managed to keep the key to his old room, going on about how he’s going to get Stiles back _so bad_.

Unfortunately, Jackson’s idea of “thinking big” seems to be hair dye and loosening a bed frame, so Derek isn’t holding his breath for anything spectacular.

He catches himself complaining about it when Laura calls him Tuesday night and asks about the prank war.

“I’m pretty sure we’re losing,” Derek grumbles, though Laura’s the only person he’d ever admit that to. “Fuckin’ Boyd - he scooped the most infuriatingly genius freshman out from right under my goddamn nose. Kid’s been making everyone’s life exceedingly unpleasant.”

Laura just laughs, and Derek fights off a sigh, hating how far away that laughter is.

“I think you’ve been having fun,” she says, in that big sister way, where she manages to sound all _knowing_. That tone of voice happens to be Derek’s least favorite. “You’ve been sending me emails with more than two sentences in them - for you, that’s practically gushing.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, but it’s a weak reply. He’s so tired of people telling him what fun he’s having, how he’s so into Stiles, when that is not ever going to go anywhere. Fine, he can maybe admit that he’s got a little bit of a... a _thing_ , but Stiles doesn’t even like him, and Derek isn’t about to make a fool out of himself just because he’s got a crush. He’s already done that once, with Kate, and that was more than enough for him, thanks.

“I’m serious!” Laura says. “You seem happier than you usually do, underneath all of that showy grumpiness, which is great, okay? I don’t know why you fight it so much.”

“I’m not fighting anything,” Derek protests. Lies.

“Uh huh,” says Laura, not the least bit convinced. “You keep telling yourself that, little brother. I’ll just wait until you prove me right.”

Big sisters, Derek is sure, are the worst.

*

Kali, the current President of the Delta Alpha Kappas herself, corners Derek as he’s coming out of his two o’clock class. He startles badly, then tries to cover it up with his sternest look.

“What,” he says, because Kali never pops up just to say hi.

“The annual Delta Alpha Kappa and Alpha Nu Alpha Howl-O-Ween party is this Friday night, as I’m sure you know,” she announces, and Derek grunts an acknowledgment. His lack of interest doesn’t seem to bother Kali at all.

“I need to know what time you can come over to help set up,” she says.

Derek lets his mouth settle into a flat line. “Cal’s taking care of all of that,” he says, which is when Kali’s eyes narrow.

“Derek, are you or are you not the President of Alpha Nu Alpha?” she demands; Derek has to bite back the urge to growl at her.

“Well?” she prompts, after a few moments pass with no answer from Derek.

“Yes,” he finally grits out.

“Then as President,” Kali continues, “you have a duty to not only make an appearance, but also to help carry heavy things. Like kegs.”

Derek manfully suppresses a groan, because the thing is, she’s not wrong. The Howl-O-Ween party is a thirty-year tradition. He’d been hoping the sorority would be satisfied with just Cal, but clearly that isn’t going to be the case.

“What time do you need me there?” he says, and Kali beams.

“Five o’clock!” she says happily, obviously pleased over having gotten her way. “And you’d better come in costume!”

She doesn’t stick around to hear any further protests, just strides off across the quad, like she hasn’t just effectively ruined Derek’s afternoon by bullying him into a ridiculous party he has no interest in attending.

His mind briefly flickers to his conversation with Erica. _At least find someone who looks like him and get it out of your system_. He shakes his head, forcing the thought away. One-night stands aren’t his style. Besides, if this year’s Howl-O-Ween is anything like last year’s, he’s going to have to keep an eye on things, or risk letting the party get broken up by the cops.

*

“I don’t think that actually counts as a costume,” Ennis says dubiously, giving Derek’s attire a truly judgmental look.

“How does this not count?” Derek demands. “I’m Wolverine.”

“You’re wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket,” Ennis says.

Derek glares at him, because this is exactly what Hugh Jackman wears in the movie, so there. His brothers have been ridiculously disapproving, however, and it’s just Derek’s luck that he’d be stuck with a bunch that takes Halloween far too seriously.

“Here,” Aiden says, practically bouncing back into the living room. He’s holding out a simple black mask, and a pile of gray plastic.

“They’re retractable,” Aiden grins, when he sees Derek looking. “Stole ‘em from my little sister - she’s obsessed with all things X-Men.” He demonstrates, and Derek recoils a little as claws suddenly shoot out of the contraptions.

He has to admit, they’re pretty cool.

“Fine,” he says, taking the claws from Aiden and strapping them to his wrists, underneath the leather jacket. He puts the mask on, too, because why the hell not. Going to this party incognito might actually be for the best.

“Here, this, too,” Aiden says, and thrusts a condom and lube at Derek.

“Compliments of Miss Erica Reyes,” he says, when Derek sends him a death glare. Its overall effect, Derek thinks, is probably diminished by the mask he’s wearing.

Aiden just gives him a shit-eating grin and heads out the door, closely followed by Ennis.

Derek spends a long minute staring down at the supplies in his hand, then all at once shoves them into his pocket. It’d be stupid to go all the way up to his room just to stick them in a drawer, and besides, just because he’s taking the condom, doesn’t mean he’s actually going to _use_ it.

*

As parties go, this year’s Howl-O-Ween bash is actually kind of fun. Kali’s gone above and beyond with the alcohol selection, which means Derek’s been drinking gin and tonics all night, instead of the usual college staple of shitty beer.

The music’s loud, but it’s good, and the house is filled with people who just want to dance. Derek isn’t dancing, of course, but he’s having a good time just watching. It’s kind of nice, sometimes, to just sit back and observe happy people having a great time.

He’s just gotten another drink and is settling back into a corner of the couch when the front door swings open yet again and two guys enter. Derek _notices_ the one dressed as Spider-Man the instant he steps into the living room, because apparently Derek has a built-in radar now for guys who are tall and skinny, lightly muscled and in possession of a great ass. The resemblance to Stiles is kind of uncanny, and thank _God_ Derek went with a mask, because otherwise his staring would be creepily obvious. Spider-Man’s with a friend though - possibly a boyfriend, if the way they’re sticking to each other like glue is any indication - so Derek keeps to just noticing, his gaze idly drifting to those spandex-clad legs whenever Spider-Man comes near.

A few hours in, he sees the shirtless possible-boyfriend flirting with Allison Argent, which pretty firmly relegates him to strictly friend status. Derek has a half-formed notion to go find Spider-Man, but he gets distracted by a keg stand that results in a nasty, face-first tumble. 

Greenberg’s lucky he doesn’t break his goddamn nose, manages to stumble away with just a bruised forehead instead.

*

As fate would have it, Derek comes into the kitchen a while later in a bid to escape Lydia Martin’s mosh pit, only to find Spider-Man trying to sneak his way upstairs. Derek doesn’t even think about it - maybe because he’s been drinking, maybe because his blood _pulses_ at the sight of him - he just moves, until he’s right behind the guy, grabbing him by the shoulder and tugging him back.

“Hey!” the guy exclaims, flailing in a way that is decidedly unheroic.

“Nobody’s allowed upstairs,” Derek says. The guy turns around, then, and Derek finds himself staring into a totally opaque mask; he can’t catch even a hint of expression. He does notice the subtle up and down the guy gives him, which ends in a curious tilt of his head.

“Who are you even supposed to be?”

Something about the question grates on Derek, just a little, and so he gives in to the urge to freak the stranger out by flicking his wrist and causing the claws to shoot out.

The guy shouts and falls down, hard enough that Derek hears the thud. “Holy shit!” he yelps, pointing at Derek. “You could’ve taken my _eye_ out.”

Derek rolls his eyes, because really? “They’re plastic,” he says, “calm down.”

“Oh,” the guy says, then struggles back up to his feet. “In that case...”

Derek doesn’t miss the flick of his wrist, but he does startle back as a stream of silly string hits his shirt, and the guy in front of him nearly chokes with laughter. It’s giving Derek terrible flashbacks to Stiles, and the way he’d been practically giggling while he was telling Derek about the itching powder, the way his body shook with humor underneath Derek’s.

That’s when Derek darts in, as if action might push the thoughts from his head.

“No one’s allowed upstairs,” he says, forcing the guy back into the bannister a bit. He feels more than hears a sudden inhale, a little gasp of a breath.

“M’just looking for a friend,” the guy says. “Seriously, dude, I’ll be in and out, that’s all.”

“No.”

“What are you, the unofficial bouncer? It’ll take me two seconds!” He’s starting to sound downright irritated, and somehow, Derek takes some satisfaction in that.

“Not without an escort,” Derek says. “Either one of the sorority sisters, or an Alpha.”

“So why don’t _you_ escort me upstairs?”

Derek grins; it’s easier, somehow, with the mask on, to give in to whatever whims he’s feeling. And right now, he’s feeling a little bit like the big bad wolf, and he’s kind of enjoying it.

“I don’t sneak upstairs at parties unless I’m going to be putting one of the beds up there to good use.”

It’s totally out of character for him, but there’s no reason this guy needs to know that. Besides, when was the last time Derek engaged in a little charged conversation, the kind that edges into flirting territory?

(An argument could be made for there being a recent time or two, with Stiles, but Derek has no interest in hearing such an argument.)

“I, uh,” the guy says, and his voice is suddenly far more hoarse than it was a moment ago. “I could be persuaded.”

Derek freezes. It feels like his brain shuts off, because somehow, Erica’s careless words have, potentially, become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because Derek could do this. Could give into some no-strings-attached sex, with a stranger who reminds him just a little too much of Stiles.

He can’t quite formulate a specific answer, too distracted, maybe, by taking another meandering look down the length of the guy’s body. He’s tall, almost Derek’s height, and broader at the shoulders than you’d think at first glance.

“You want to?” the guy prompts, and just like that, Derek’s made his decision. He reaches for the guy’s wrist, tugs him straight upstairs, already thinking about how Erica’s room will be empty, that the sorority sisters will have thoughtfully outfitted her bed with sheets, in case of overnight guests.

The seconds tick by in a blur until they reach Erica’s room, and Derek leads Spider-Man inside, snapping the door shut behind them and twisting the lock.

“Erica’s studying abroad this semester,” Derek says. His mouth feels dry, suddenly, and his heart’s about ready to pound out of his chest. There’s a part of him - a big part - that can’t believe he’s actually doing this. “Nobody’ll come kick us out of here,” he adds, mostly for something to say, something to fill the silence.

“Good thinking,” Spider-Man says. He leans back into the door, hips cocked out, and Derek can’t resist that kind of temptation. He reaches out, settles his hands to the sharp cut of those hips. Jesus, he can hardly look at this guy without thinking about Stiles, and he has to wonder if that makes him a terrible person.

“You gonna take that mask off?” he asks raggedly, because maybe if he can see the guy’s face, then his mind won’t stray.

Spider-Man goes still, but after a moment, he reaches up and peels the mask up above his nose, which doesn’t actually help at _all_ , because it turns out his mouth is positively edible.

“No way in hell I’m hot enough for you,” Spider-Man quips, although Derek has already seen enough of him to know that can’t possibly be true. 

“Besides,” he continues, “I feel like it would be terrible of us to squander this opportunity to do it as Spider-Man and Wolverine.”

Derek can’t help it - that gets a smile out of him, one that comes very close to turning into a laugh. Maybe it’s for the best. He won’t get to know this guy’s true identity, but this guy won’t know _him_ , either, and Derek does have a reputation to maintain. “If you say so,” he says and gives in to the desire to move his hand to the guy’s bare skin, to curl his fingers to his jaw, to press his thumb in at the guy’s plush, bottom lip. God, he wants to _bite_ at it, until it’s all red and swollen, then suck the sting away. He’s just begun to lean in, not much room left in his brain for anything but kissing, when the guy makes a soft, wanting noise.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna call you Logan,” he mumbles. “Because it’s weird if I keep calling you ‘that guy’ in my head.”

“Sure thing, Parker,” Derek says, but thinks _Stiles_ , and to keep that particular bit of mortification from ever seeing the light of day, he goes in for a kiss.

*

They don’t talk much, once Derek starts fucking him in earnest. A large part of that is because Derek doesn’t think he has the breath for it. Parker’s a hot vise around his dick, and if Derek gets distracted by having to formulate words, he thinks he’ll be coming in no time, and he doesn’t want this to end. It feels fucking amazing, and he can’t let it be over, not yet. Not when Parker’s a moaning, mumbling mess underneath him, clutching at Derek’s shoulders and sometimes forgetting himself enough that he ends up scratching blunt nails down Derek’s back, leaving, no doubt, red lines the whole way down.

Instead of talking, Derek keeps his mouth on Parker’s neck, the long, pale expanse of it, where he discovers it’s insanely easy to bring the blood rushing to the surface, to suck a hickey into being. He’s always liked leaving marks. He doesn’t ever want to hurt someone, has no interest in leaving those kinds of traces behind, but he likes leaving something harmless, something to say, _I was here_.

“You can - harder,” Parker gasps out, legs tightening around Derek’s waist. “I like it harder, c’mon.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek says roughly, but he can’t quite help the way his hips jerk forward harder, faster, and his whole body flushes with heat when Parker lets out a strung out moan. His mouth’s open and wet, gasping for air, and his lips are every bit as kiss-stung and red as Derek had imagined, and his cheeks - what Derek can see of them - are stained a splotchy pink, just the way Derek has seen Stiles’ flush - 

He pulls back from the thought sharply, but it’s too late; he’s already coming, hips stuttering forward, like his body wants to bury itself as deeply as it possibly can. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he gasps, well and truly wrecked, and to his surprise, he feels Stiles buck up against him, once, then twice, his cock skidding against Derek’s stomach, and then he’s seizing up and coming, too. He clenches up around Derek’s cock, and the tightness is almost unbearable, sending a series of aftershocks rippling through Derek.

Parker, Derek thinks muzzily, his breathing harsh and uneven and loud in his own ears. Parker, not Stiles. _Parker_.

He pulls out quickly, carefully, ties the condom off and tosses it into the nearby trash can, but instead of moving away, he slides an arm around Parker’s waist and gently maneuvers him along as he rolls off, until Parker’s sprawled on top of him.

“I should go,” Parker slurs, his words barely decipherable. Derek can’t help but feel kind of smug about that, even as the guilt starts to creep in, not to mention resignation, because whatever this was, it’s clearly not something that succeeded in getting Stiles out of his system.

“Gotta - should find my friend, head back home,” Parker continues, but Derek just tightens his hold, starts rubbing patterns over his back.

“Not yet,” he says, sleep already tugging at his eyes. Even if it’s the wrong person, a stranger, he doesn’t want to give this up quite yet. He’s exhausted and spent, and Parker’s weight on top of him is warm and comfortable, and there’s no reason they can’t take a little more time together. “Stay. Just f’r now.”

Derek flushes head to toe, pleased, when Parker says, “For a little bit,” on a sigh, snuggling in nice and close. “Just a little.” Derek hums his agreement. He pushes his guilt and resignation aside and just lets himself fall asleep, lets himself _have_ this, if only for a little while.

*

Derek wakes up early the next morning - _too_ early - when he feels the mattress dip. He rolls over on reflex, blinking against the dim morning light, and his mouth falls open when he realizes he’s staring right at Stiles.

 _This is a dream_ he thinks to himself, not breathing for at least a minute, it feels like. _I’m dreaming_.

Except he doesn’t think he’d ever have a dream about Stiles where Stiles _yelps_ and then proceeds to fall out of bed in his haste to get away from Derek.

“You!” Stiles shouts, and Derek quickly sits up, seeing something a lot like panic in Stiles’ eyes. The sight makes Derek’s stomach drop like a fucking rock, makes his momentary bloom of excitement shrivel up like a grape in the sun. “ _You_ were Wolverine?”

“Stiles,” Derek says carefully, placatingly, moving to the edge of the bed, the sheet dropping precariously low on his hips. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, exactly, to fix this, but he doesn’t even have a chance to figure it out before Stiles’ expression shifts.

He looks, Derek thinks, like he’s about to be sick.

“Was this a prank?” he asks, voice no more than a croak, and Derek freezes. “Was this - is this some completely fucked up plan where you get back at me by - by _fucking_ me - ”

“Stiles,” Derek tries to interrupt, the accusation hitting him in the worst possible way, that same feeling you get when you turn on the shower and unwittingly step into a stream of ice-cold water. God, he can’t believe Stiles actually thinks - 

“Shit, did you _film_ this? Is everyone in on it - am I gonna open the door and find your whole frat out there, _waiting_ \- ”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek exclaims, because he can’t sit here and listen to this, Jesus Christ, he can’t let Stiles believe this, not for a second longer. Stiles’ gaze is darting all over the room, like he’s looking for an escape route, and his breathing is so quick and shallow, he sounds like he’s ready to start hyperventilating.

Derek heaves himself out of bed, doesn’t bother to bring any of the blankets with him. He couldn’t give less of a shit about modesty right now, he just wants to get that fucking look off of Stiles’ face.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Derek says seriously, moving toward Stiles - not quite hesitantly, but cautiously, because Stiles looks ready to bolt. “I’d never do something that shitty, okay?”

“I mean, I put itching powder in your underwear,” Stiles says. “I buttered your whole _house_ \- ”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, wholly unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, although he’s not sure Stiles picks up on it. “You’ve been an annoying little shit, but there isn’t anything you could do that would make me pull something like what you’re thinking, all right? I had no idea who you were until I woke up to you screaming like a girl.”

He leaves out, obviously, the part where he’d spent most of last night _wishing_ it was Stiles in bed with him.

“Wasn’t screaming like a girl,” Stiles mutters, stubborn as ever, but Derek can see a measure of calm stealing over him, so that’s something.

In the light of day, he’s having a hard time believing he didn’t realize it was Stiles he’d taken to bed last night. God, his unexpectedly broad shoulders, his waist, his stupid fucking _mouth_ \- 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, distracting Derek from his mouth, which is probably for the best. “I didn’t - it’s not that I think you _would_ do something like that, just - it kind of seemed like the only explanation.”

“The only explanation?” Derek echoes, not understanding at all where Stiles is going with this.

Stiles goes red, and his eyes shift down and to the side, like he’s not interested in meeting Derek’s gaze right now.

“For, uh. Sleeping with me,” he says, reeking of discomfort. “I mean, you’re _you_ , and I’m, um.”

He gestures to himself in a fantastically unimpressed way, and Derek makes an irritated noise, filled suddenly with the desire to stick up for Stiles, even if it’s in the face of Stiles’ own self-disparagement.

“I think you underestimate just how well you filled out that costume,” he says, eyes dropping to Stiles’ chest - he doesn’t remember leaving a hickey on his left pec, but there one is, clear as day. It’s practically involuntary, the way his gaze travels from there, up Stiles’ throat, to his jaw, his mouth, and finally up to his eyes.

Stiles is looking at him, his expression shaky and a little bit wondering, and Derek breathes out sharply. In that moment, he can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch, fitting his thumb to one of the bruises he left on Stiles’ neck last night.

Stiles gasps, and Derek feels a pulse of want spike through him, all the way down to his dick.

“Sorry,” he says roughly, because he probably shouldn’t have gone to town on Stiles’ neck the way he did. “Hickeys. I kind of have a thing.”

“I don’t mind hickeys,” Stiles says, because of course he does, and Derek thinks he might moan; he’s not actually sure, because before his brain can catch up with his body, he’s sliding his hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek and dragging him into a kiss.

Stiles makes a muffled, incoherent noise, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s the important part. They wind up laid out on the carpet, kissing each other messily, no finesse whatsoever. Derek’s too desperate for it, too caught up in the fact that it’s _Stiles_ underneath him, that this time, he won’t have to pretend.

At some point, Stiles winds a leg around Derek’s waist and nudges them over, so that Derek’s the one on his back. He feels something hard under his shoulder though, and he grimaces, awkwardly reaching back to get whatever it is.

It’s the bottle of lube, still half-full from last night; Stiles sits straight up when he sees it, still straddling Derek’s hips. His eyes are very, very dark. “You want to?” he asks hoarsely, almost tentatively, like he doesn’t quite believe that Derek would, now that he knows who Spider-Man really is.

“Yeah,” Derek manages. “Yeah, I - ” and then he swears quietly, remembering. “I don’t have another condom,” he says.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I - me neither.”

Derek stares at him for a long moment. So what if they don’t have a condom? There are plenty of other things they can do, things Derek _wants_ to do, that they didn’t get a chance to last night.

“Here,” Derek says breathlessly, curling up like he’s halfway through a sit up, so he can wrap his arm around Stiles’ waist and roll them over one more time, depositing him as gently as he can on the carpet.

Stiles is staring up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes, breathing shallowly and _waiting_ to see what Derek will do. Derek doesn’t leave him wondering long; he hurriedly slicks up his fingers, brings his hand down to Stiles’ entrance, while using his other arm to prop himself up, within kissing distance of Stiles’ mouth.

“This okay?” he whispers, the pad of one finger already brushing against Stiles’ hole.

Stiles breathes out harshly, but nods, then curves his hand around Derek’s neck, fingers digging in tight.

Derek’s finger slides in easy, since Stiles is still a little bit loose and slick from last night. From the way he’s hovering over Stiles, Derek can see _everything_ , every expression that crosses Stiles’ face, from an oh-so brief flash of discomfort, to the zing of pleasure that results from Derek’s finger curling in at a good angle.

Stiles lets out a low moan when Derek eases another finger inside, and that’s when Derek has to kiss him. Stiles’ mouth is a little lax, like he’s too distracted for kissing, but he doesn’t stop Derek from licking his way in, from sucking on Stiles’ tongue and tugging at his bottom lip with a gentle bite.

All the while, Stiles’ hips are rutting up against Derek’s in abortive, needy thrusts. Derek finally pulls back a little bit, and he feels a frisson of desire at the sight of him; Stiles’ lips are red and swollen, his mouth parted and panting now that Derek’s no longer kissing him, and his eyes are shut tight, eyebrows pulled together in a desperate frown.

It makes Derek’s chest clench. He can’t believe Stiles is doing this with him, that they’re having sex for the second time in a span of just a few hours, and that this time, Stiles knows it’s _him_. He’s choosing to do this with Derek - he _wants_ to do this with Derek, and it’s the headiest feeling, the best thing in Derek’s world.

It’s hard not to take it as a sign of some sort, and as Stiles throws his head back and arches up off the floor, as Derek adds a third finger, he decides he can’t let this moment pass. Now that he’s had this, he can’t go back to being without it.

“Good?” Derek asks, and Stiles’ eyes flutter open; he looks overwhelmed.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rocking down harder against Derek’s fingers. “Good, yeah, yes.”

Breakfast, Derek thinks. They can go to breakfast after this. There’s a diner a few blocks away that makes the best pancakes Derek’s ever had, and Stiles seems like a pancakes kind of guy.

“M’so - a-almost,” Stiles stutters helplessly, and Derek moves down his body in one fluid movement, sinks his mouth over Stiles’ cock, all the while keeping up the steady rhythm of his fingers.

Stiles practically keens when he comes, one hand sliding through Derek’s hair, fingers curling in and tugging hard. Derek swallows easily, mouth gentling as Stiles’ comes down from his orgasm, until he finally slips off completely, eases his fingers out.

He gives Stiles a moment to recover, while he grabs for the lube and drizzles some into the palm of his hand, which he immediately wraps around his own cock and begins to stroke. He’s so incredibly hard, it feels like he’s on the verge of coming already.

“Wait,” Stiles says breathlessly, struggling up to his elbows, legs still spread obscenely around Derek’s body. “Do you want me to - I could...” He trails off, still flushed and panting, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“No, it’s fine,” Derek says raggedly, because as much as he’d love to feel Stiles’ mouth around him, there’ll be time for that later, he thinks. He hopes.

“Here, just - ” Derek says, and he crawls back over Stiles, kissing him all the way down to the floor again. Once they’re sprawled there, Derek’s cock fits snugly up against the cut of Stiles’ hip, and he loses himself in the cradle of it, his thrusts going erratic as he finally starts to come.

“Fuck, Stiles,” he groans, but the words are lost against Stiles’ skin, where Derek has his mouth pressed once more to Stiles’ neck.

He’s shaking by the time he’s finished, but Stiles’ breathing is still quick and unsteady, so Derek flops to the side instead of settling on top of him, taking a moment to just close his eyes and bask in the aftermath of the best sex he’s had in years.

When he finally opens his eyes and turns his head, Stiles is using the nearby sheet to clean himself off - to get rid of the lube and Derek’s come. There’s a funny sort of expression on his face, one that Derek can’t quite read, but that makes his mouth feel suddenly dry.

“I - I should go,” Stiles mumbles, not looking Derek in the eye. He sets the sheet aside with a jerky movement, and Derek has to wonder if it’s panic that’s making him so graceless, or maybe even regret.

He turns away as Stiles gets dressed, because Stiles is radiating discomfort, and Derek is pretty sure he wouldn’t welcome Derek watching him put on his clothes. He can salvage this though, probably. They’ll both get dressed, and then Derek can ask him to breakfast, just like he’d planned. They can go home for showers first, then meet back up once they’re both dressed, and it’ll be... it’ll be good, it doesn’t have to be awkward or uncomfortable.

Except once they’re both dressed again, Stiles won’t meet Derek’s eyes. He’s almost hunched in on himself, and Derek finds himself at a complete loss for what to say. He’s not good with words at the best of times, and this is - Stiles looks like he’s completely freaking out. 

“So, uh, I guess I’ll see you around,” Stiles says quickly. Derek’s stomach twists unpleasantly, but he just offers Stiles a jerky nod, pressing his lips together to keep from blurting anything out. Anything he said right now would probably come out as a plea to stay, and Stiles clearly wants to be anywhere but here.

Stiles tugs his mask down over his face and practically jogs out the door; Derek can hear his footsteps pounding all the way down the hallway, and then the staircase, until there’s just silence once more.

Derek takes a deep, deep breath, shoulders slumping as he looks around the room. It reeks of sex, and the bed is a wreck, a mess of tangled, sticky sheets that trails from the mattress all the way to the floor. Derek crosses to the window to slide it open, counting on the crisp fall breeze to air out the room, then gathers up the sheets into a tight bundle. He’ll at least throw them in the washer before he leaves, hopefully before anyone else is up to witness it, because Erica will kill him if she ever finds out he had sex in her room.

Besides, the thought of keeping himself preoccupied with something as mundane as laundry sounds pretty good right now. It leaves far less room in his head for thoughts of Stiles and the look on his face as he left, like all he wanted to do was get the hell out. Like if Derek _had_ asked about breakfast, Stiles’ answer would have been an unequivocal “no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a tumblr, if anyone feels like hanging out. You can find me [here!](http://sidekickinit.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boyd and Isaac are meddling and Derek's life is still hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! I'm so very sorry for the wait, but thank you all for sticking with me! Seriously, the outpouring of love that I've received over this series has been incredible. You all are LOVELY, and I so hope you enjoy the final part!

*

The problem with the campus gym, Derek thinks darkly, is that it doesn’t stay open past 10pm. This is college, after all, it’s not like anyone’s actually going to bed that early, and it stands to reason that some people might like to extend their workout past the gym’s currently outrageous and arbitrary closing time. If the library is open until 2am, then surely the gym could stay staffed until at least midnight.

The girl manning the desk gives Derek an irritated look as he exits, and he glares right back at her. It’s ten on the dot, and even if he has been the only person working out for the past twenty minutes, it’s not like she would have been able to go home early if he’d left when everyone else had.

It’s cold outside, a shift in temperature so sharp that the sweat dripping off Derek cools immediately, clinging tacky and uncomfortable to his skin. He should have hit the showers before he left, but that would have cut his workout short, which wasn’t a trade he was willing to make.

It’s not far to his house, he’ll be fine. It’s a nice walk, and a peaceful night.

Or at least, it’s peaceful until he gets all the way past the entrance and sees Boyd sitting sprawled out over a bench, clearly waiting for someone. Boyd looks up a moment later, and when he spots Derek, his eyes narrow.

“Derek,” he says, and his voice is positively radiating disapproval.

“Boyd,” Derek replies, hitching the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder. He knows it’s wishful thinking to hope that Boyd might be waiting for someone else, especially since Boyd gets to his feet as soon as Derek passes by, falling into step beside him. His boots give a heftier thud than Derek’s sneakers, and his leather jacket creaks when he shoves his hands into its pockets.

“All right, spill,” Boyd says after a minute of silence.

Derek doesn’t look at him, just keeps on staring straight ahead. “Spill what.”

“Whatever’s bothering you,” Boyd says. “You might as well tell me, you know I’m going to get it out of you one way or another.”

“Nothing to tell,” Derek says firmly. “Things are fine. Good. Great.”

The snort Boyd offers in return is rife with disbelief. “Uh huh,” he says, thoroughly unconvinced. “That’s why my sources tell me you’ve been spending four to six hours a day in the gym, and that you have once again filled your fridge with sprouts and celery and other shit that you’ll never actually eat. Not to mention the fact that you’ve been dodging my calls, or that Erica hasn’t been able to get you on Skype for days now.”

“Sources?” Derek says, injecting as much derision as he possibly can into the word.

Boyd shoots him a smug smile. “I’m the TA for Greenberg’s philosophy section. In exchange for keeping me updated about your mental and emotional well-being, I look the other way if he occasionally misses a discussion session.”

“Well,” Derek says calmly, “I’m going to kill him, and once that’s done, I’m going to kill you, so you’d better say goodbye to Erica while you still have the chance.”

“Derek, come on,” Boyd says, his voice finally dropping to something low and sincere. Derek’s prepared to walk right past him, but Boyd grabs his elbow, holding him in place. “There’s _clearly_ something wrong, it’s not like I haven’t seen you do the whole obsessive workout thing before. I mean, after Kate - ”

“Stiles and I hooked up,” Derek interrupts, because given the choice between talking about Kate and anything else, he will pick anything else each and every single time. “I hooked up with Stiles. There.”

Boyd gapes at him, the surprise out of place on his normally unruffled face. “You... don’t hook up,” he finally says. He blinks at Derek, once, twice.

It makes Derek want to laugh, almost, quiet and bitter, but he just jerks his shoulders in a shrug instead. “Well, this time I did,” he says. “Trust me, I’m making a mental note to never do it again.”

“What happened?” Boyd asks, yanking Derek over to a bench, then tugging him down to sit; he doesn’t have to pull very hard, because Derek feels suddenly exhausted, drained in a way that has nothing to do with the weights he was lifting earlier. “When? _Where_?”

“Halloween, at the Delta Alpha Kappa party,” Derek says, curling his hands into fists and letting them rest on his thighs, keeping his eyes trained there. “We... we were both in costume, we’d both been drinking, and the first time, I didn’t even know who he was.”

“The first time?” Boyd prods gently, after a few moments of weighty silence have passed.

Derek tilts his head back, breathes in deeply through his nose, holds it, then draws out his exhale.

“We fell asleep,” he says. “When we woke up, our masks had come off. He _panicked_ when he saw me, he thought it was some shitty prank I’d orchestrated, and then... I don’t know,” Derek says, frustrated. “Somehow we got from there to sex, and I kept thinking I was going to ask him out to breakfast after, that I’d take him to that diner on Elm. But as soon as it was over he bolted.”

Boyd doesn’t say anything; he’s always been like that, content to let silences linger, probably in hopes of forcing Derek to say something else, to give up more details. Derek doesn’t fall for it this time - he’s already said plenty, so he just keeps his teeth gritted and his gaze focused up, eyes idly tracing the stars in the night sky.

“Stiles was acting kind of weird at the last meeting we had,” Boyd finally says, which just makes Derek’s stomach twist tight. “Quiet, sort of distant, I guess.”

“Well,” he forces himself to say, “he’s probably neck-deep in regret because he slept with someone he can’t stand.”

“Derek,” Boyd says, his tone alone carrying a wealth of judgment. “Don’t be obtuse.” Derek shoots him a glare out of the corner of his eye, but Boyd’s expression is steady, unshifting. He raises an eyebrow, as if he’s expecting Derek to have some response other than indignation.

“I’m not being _obtuse_ ,” Derek snaps, once he can’t take Boyd’s silence anymore. “He - ”

“He _likes_ you,” Boyd says. “Look, I don’t know why he ran off - maybe hookups aren’t his thing either - but he codenamed you ‘Sourwolf’ like three weeks ago, and he gets this stupid, smug, _fond_ look on his face whenever he has an excuse to say it. Which is all the time, because he talks about you _all the time_.”

Derek doesn’t have a response to that, but he can feel his ears suddenly burn with heat.

“That doesn’t mean he likes me,” Derek mutters, feeling like he’s suddenly reverted to junior high and hating every minute of it.

“Uh, yeah. It kinda does, Derek.”

“Then it doesn’t mean he _wants_ me,” Derek says. “Maybe he just thinks it’s funny to mess with me. Maybe - ”

Boyd’s snort cuts him off. “I’ve _seen_ him watch that youtube video - the one with the butter,” he says. “And I’ve seen the way he watches _you_ in it. That kid is the _least_ subtle, if that’s how he looks at you in person, I don’t know how you haven’t noticed it before.”

There’s a moment where Derek’s mind rushes back to the duct tape, to the time he’d tackled Stiles after all those deliveries. Hell, to the time they’d slept together. He _had_ noticed Stiles looking, is the thing. He hadn’t let himself think too hard about it, still firmly set in his denial, but... he’d noticed. Of course he had. And the looks Stiles had been giving him aren’t really the kinds of looks that are easily mistaken for anything else.

Boyd, no doubt watching Derek’s thought process play out over his face, hums approvingly, because he’s actually a huge asshole. Then he claps Derek on the back and gets to his feet.

“You should talk to him,” he says placidly, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world and not, you know, terrifying. “Try actually asking him out on a date this time. But go home and get some sleep first, you’re kind of a wreck.”

“Shut up,” Derek says automatically, but he can’t help the exasperated fondness that sneaks in despite his best efforts to keep it out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Boyd says. “I’m gonna head home, I promised Erica I’d skype her once I talked to you - any messages you want to pass along?”

Derek just flips him his middle finger as he gets to his own feet, since it’s basically Erica who got him into this mess in the first place. Boyd only laughs, the sound of it following Derek down the sidewalk.

*

As luck would have it, Greenberg’s walking out of the Alpha house just as Derek’s jogging up the front steps. He ignores Greenberg’s smile and wave in favor of snagging the front pocket of his surprisingly heavy backpack and tugging him right back inside.

“Hey!” Greenberg yelps, strangled. “Derek!”

“Here’s an idea,” Derek says, once he’s deposited Greenberg in the blessedly-empty kitchen and stepped back so he can fold his arms threateningly across his chest. “If you just _go_ to your damn philosophy discussion session, you won’t have to _spy_ on me to get your TA to let it slide.

Greenberg pales - visibly - and gulps. “It’s just - I got stuck with an 8am - ”

“I don’t care,” Derek says. “No more reporting back to Boyd - or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Yeah, of course, I’m sorry,” Greenberg says eagerly, gnawing at his lip in what seems to be a fair amount of anxiety.

“Good,” Derek says, settling in to glare at him for a little while longer, to really drive the message home. Greenberg fidgets guiltily, then opens his mouth, like he’s about to start apologizing again. Derek’s not in the mood for that; he cuts Greenberg off to tell him to just go home, but what he hears come out of his mouth instead is, “How’s Stiles?”

“What do you mean?” Greenberg asks, and Derek mentally curses, clenches his jaw so hard there’s probably a tic in his cheek.

Still, Greenberg’s looking at him expectantly, so Derek continues, entirely against his better judgment. “Has he seemed... different at all?”

If it were anyone else, they’d be calling Derek out on being a huge, double-standard-perpetuating hypocrite, but Greenberg just tilts his head thoughtfully to the side, thinking hard.

“No?” he says after a while. “A little quieter, maybe? Like, in his own head, kind of. But we’ve got this huge Econ test coming up this Friday, and everyone’s freaking out about it, so it’s probably just that.”

Derek recalls the weight of Greenberg’s backpack and grimaces. “Is that what you’ve been holed up here studying for?”

“Yeah,” Greenberg sighs. “Finstock totally hates me. I think he might fail me on purpose.”

“If he fails you, he’ll have to have you in his class next semester,” Derek says. Greenberg’s face lights right up.

“That’s so true!” he says, hiking his backpack up with renewed vigor. “Thanks, Derek!”

He starts toward the door, an honest-to-God spring in his step. “Go to your discussion section!” Derek yells after him, sounding like somebody’s middle-aged parent. Fucking Greenberg, he thinks, sullenly opening the fridge for a snack, only to find nothing but carrots as far as the eye can see.

He pulls out his phone instead; he’ll just get something delivered - practically every place in town has his info now, after all.

“Pete’s Pizza,” a girl’s voice chirps once his call goes through.

“Hi,” Derek says. “I’d like to place an order - a large pepperoni pizza, please.”

“Sure thing,” the girl says. “Name and phone number?”

“Derek Hale,” Derek says, then rattles off his number, waiting for her to pull up his account. There’s a pause, the background sounds of the busy pizza parlor filtering through, and then the girl hums, a quiet, confused noise.

“It says here I’m supposed to ask you a security question?” she says uncertainly. “Uh, favorite movie?”

“An American Werewolf in London,” Derek says, pleased, at the very least, that Pete’s Pizza is willing to play along with him on this front. 

Not that he thinks Stiles would ever stoop so low as to repeat a prank, but really, he’d rather be safe than sorry.

*

Derek’s frowning down at his iphone as he walks toward the library, scrolling briskly through the obnoxious spam that’s been getting through lately. He can’t figure it out - the emails are from mostly legitimate websites, but they’re not pages he’s ever visited, nor are they of interest to him. Exhibit A: The One Direction fan club that sends him nearly hourly updates as to what its favorite boy banders are doing. Derek’s been trying to unsubscribe for the past week, but it never seems to stick.

See also: The unrelenting groupon offers, as well as every knockoff copycat in what would appear to be the continental United States.

He’s clicked yet another ‘Please remove me from this list’ link when his phone vibrates, a text from Isaac popping up on his screen.

**guess who’s at your favorite coffee shop**

Derek stares at the text for a long count of five. He knows exactly whom Isaac’s talking about, and the thought makes his stomach twist into an apprehensive knot.

Before he can respond, a second text comes through - a picture this time. It’s Stiles, long limbs folded into an overstuffed armchair, surrounded by books and papers and index cards. He’s frowning intently at whatever it is he’s reading, and even from the distance at which Isaac took the picture, Derek thinks that he looks tired, strained, the slightest bit frayed around the edges.

**this is creepy** Derek writes back, even as he downloads the picture to his phone. **you’re a creep**

(Whatever, Isaac was creepy first.)

**he’s a sucker for pumpkin lattes** Isaac texts a moment later. **i trust you'll put this info to good use**

He ends the text with an obnoxious smiley face, and Derek huffs, then shoves his phone into his pocket without replying. He’s nearly to the library, and the coffee shop in question is on the opposite end of campus. Besides, it’s not like Stiles would want to see him anyway, no matter what Boyd says. Derek is perfectly content to keep on pretending that Halloween never happened, and actively seeking Stiles out would pretty effectively put an end to that.

His phone buzzes once more, and against his better judgment, Derek pulls it out to see a final message from Isaac.

**c’mon** it says, **man up, Hale. he’s been SAD lately, wouldn’t even help the pledges plan the next prank at our last meeting. i think he’s pining.**

It’s completely and utterly ridiculous, the thought that Stiles might actually want to see Derek again, when the last time they were together Stiles hadn’t been able to get away quickly enough. Isaac’s wrong, and Boyd is _wrong_ , and nothing good can come of Derek showing up where Stiles is studying like a great big stalker.

None of that explains why Derek abruptly turns right at the next quad and starts heading in the opposite direction of the library.

*

Brewed Daily is one of the quieter coffee shops on campus, which is one of the reasons Derek likes it so much. (On the other hand, Erica cackling over the fact that he goes to Brewed to get his brood on is reason enough to make Derek wish they’d at least consider changing their name.) It’s a good place to study, and not only is it generally pretty easy to find a seat, there’s also a surplus of outlets, so you don’t ever have to worry about your laptop’s battery dying in the middle of writing a paper.

The fact that it’s a Wednesday afternoon means it’s even emptier than usual, which in turn means that Derek spots Stiles as soon as he walks in. He’s in the far corner of the coffee shop, where the most comfortable chairs are, and he’s clearly settled in for the long haul.

Derek takes a deep breath; he’d taken the walk over to decide that he can’t just ignore Stiles forever. They’re probably going to run into each other sooner or later, so it’s in everyone’s best interests to keep things civil. Derek can do civil; they don’t have to make a big deal out of the fact that they slept together. As for anything else, well, Derek figures he can cross that bridge when he comes to it.

A cough to Derek’s left catches his attention, and he turns to find Isaac, who’s eyeing him with a positively devilish grin.

“Good man,” he says approvingly.

Derek glares. “Shut up,” he mutters, then heads for the counter. He’s too jittery to want any caffeine for himself, but now that he knows Stiles’ favorite drink, he can’t _not_ order it. Remembering how tired Stiles had looked, Derek asks for a scone, too. Somehow, he gets the feeling that when Stiles is wrapped up in something, he doesn’t always remember to feed himself.

It’s a long walk over to the back corner, but Derek forces his hands to stay steady, breathes slow and even through his nose.

Stiles doesn’t look up from his index card, not until Derek sets the plate and the mug down right in front of him.

“Oh, I didn’t order that,” Stiles says, glancing up carelessly, though his expression freezes when he registers who it is he’s looking at. “Uh.”

Derek meets his gaze head on, feeling himself start to flush when Stiles’ eyes drop, wandering down the entire length of Derek’s body, slowly coming back up to settle somewhere around his jaw.

It’s a startlingly familiar look, the one that gets Derek thinking dangerous thoughts, like maybe Boyd and Isaac aren’t quite as wrong as he’d like to think they are.

Derek clears his throat, working hard to keep his voice perfectly even. “Obviously,” he says. “I ordered it. For you.”

Stiles continues to gape at him, a light pink creeping into his cheeks. It makes Derek grateful for his own complexion; he’s feeling a little hot under the collar, too, but it doesn’t show up on his skin nearly as easily as it does on Stiles’. 

He’s actually grateful for that for multiple reasons; flushed is a stupidly good look on Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. He bites at his lower lip for a moment, white, even teeth against red, inviting flesh, and - God, it’s so distracting that Derek barely hears his next question, something about wanting to know exactly why Derek’s brought him coffee. Derek busies himself with settling into the chair next to him instead, a move he wasn’t aware he was going to make until he’s already sinking into the comfortable cushion, letting his bag drop to the floor.

He realizes Stiles is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, and Derek casts around for something that might be an acceptable response.

“There haven’t been any pranks for awhile,” he finally says, because that’s fairly neutral territory, it has nothing to do with Halloween or sex or how looking at Stiles right now is downright torturous because of how badly Derek wants to touch him.

It must not be what Stiles was expecting though, because he blinks, frown deepening. “Uh, yeah, I guess not,” he says. “I’ve been - _we’ve_ been - busy. I guess.”

It’s a careless slip, and Derek tries to fight back a smile, a battle he’s pretty sure he loses. The fact that Stiles is still trying to pretend he isn’t solely responsible for the mayhem of the past semester is both ridiculous and kind of endearing.

“It’s been a nice break,” Derek says easily. “So thanks.”

“Uh, sure.” Stiles is still looking at him like Derek’s possibly growing another head, right before his eyes. “No problem. So... that’s what the coffee’s for?”

For just a split second, Derek entertains the thought of taking a chance and asking Stiles out to lunch - somewhere nice, where there won’t be any confusion that they’re on a date. They could do Thai or Italian - maybe even a steakhouse, though that might be better suited for a dinner.

As quickly as those ideas pop into Derek’s head though, he discards them; it doesn’t feel like the right moment. Not yet. Not when Stiles is watching him so warily, clearly waiting for some other shoe to drop.

“Yeah,” Derek says smoothly. “It’s a thank you. And just... you looked like you could use it.”

Against all odds, that gets him a smile, albeit a tired one, and Derek’s chest tightens, filled with sudden warmth. He’d really like to make that a regular thing, putting a smile on Stiles’ face.

“Cool,” Stiles says, reaching up to rub his long, slender fingers at his temple. Derek does his best not to watch the movement _too_ obviously. “And, uh, good instincts, I guess. I’ve got an Econ test coming up... I’m contemplating heading over to the library and just setting up camp for the next few days.”

Derek swallows then, carefully schooling his expression into something neutral, something that won’t give away just how much he knows about Stiles’ Econ class.

“Econ,” he says casually. “Finstock?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he finally picks up the mug of coffee Derek had brought over; Derek pointedly does not watch the way his fingers mold to the curve of the cup, the way he dips his head to breathe it in.

Stiles still has a mark, Derek realizes, a jolt of lust hitting him so hard that he nearly makes a noise, deep in the back of his throat. It’s low on his neck, nearly covered up by his shirt, but Derek catches a glimpse of it when Stiles shifts. It’s still remarkably dark, considering how many days it’s been, and Derek swallows hard, diving for his messenger bag as Stiles keeps talking.

“I’ve heard terrible, terrible things,” Stiles is saying, though Derek keeps his head half-buried in his messenger bag until he trusts his expression not to give himself away.

“You’ll do fine,” he finally manages, withdrawing from his bag with his Physics book in hand, laying it across his lap. “You’re smart.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “How are you qualified to make that statement? You don’t even _know_ me.”

If Stiles honestly thinks that’s true, then he hasn’t been paying any attention at all. Derek forces back a snort, contents himself with an eyeroll instead.

“I don’t have to _know_ you to know something that obvious,” Derek says, because it’s far less incriminating than spelling out exactly how he’s spent days and _weeks_ thinking about Stiles and dreaming about Stiles and making Greenberg _spy_ on Stiles and then report back on anything and everything he’s been able to learn. It hasn’t even been that much; it’s not like you have a real opportunity to get to know your fellow students in the middle of a lecture. Still, Derek can imagine that revealing the true depths of his interest would go over about as well as a lead-lined surfboard in the ocean.

He cracks open his Physics book to a random chapter, determinedly staring down at the box of review questions instead of acknowledging the look Stiles is giving him: a look that pretty clearly implies Stiles thinks Derek is Up to Something.

Derek’s had time to read the same question four times when Stiles goes still beside him again, his coffee mug almost to his mouth.

“Did you put something in this?” he asks. The question is full of suspicion, but his tone makes it sound like he just really, really hopes Derek didn’t sabotage the coffee. “Salt? Hot sauce? Ants?”

Derek nearly chokes at the thought of ants, because who would even _do_ that, and - where would he have gotten them? How would he have smuggled them into a coffee shop? He keeps his face in check though, his gaze still fixed to his book, and says, “Shut up and drink your coffee.”

To his everlasting satisfaction, Stiles actually does. Although a moment later, Derek finds himself almost wishing he’d been his usual defiant self, because he makes this noise - a happy little sigh that trails off into something that sounds like a moan - and it’s a noise that Derek remembers. He’d made that same sound after they’d had sex the first time, when he’d been sprawled on top of Derek, warm and sated and boneless, his body totally spent.

That’s a _sex_ noise, and after a moment of being thoroughly torn between panic and lust, Derek’s surprised to feel his mouth curving into a slight, pleased grin.

He just really likes being responsible for that noise, whether it’s because he’s hand-delivered Stiles a mug of his favorite coffee, or because he’s brought him to an orgasm that leaves him weak and shivery.

Derek can feel Stiles looking at him, but he doesn’t say anything, just rereads question eight for the tenth time, and eventually Stiles goes back to his own work, alternating between sipping his coffee and taking messy, unattractive bites of his scone. Derek takes care to keep flipping through the chapter, as if he really is reading, but mostly he’s busy cataloguing everything about Stiles.

Stiles, in a turn of events that should shock no one, is a fidgety worker. He taps his pen while he’s thinking, then frowns and chews on his thumbnail whenever he’s faced with something he doesn’t quite understand. He has a tendency to mutter things under his breath - an occasional, exasperated, ‘where they hell did I put that,’ interspersed with a hissed ‘yesss’ when he doesn’t have to check the back of his flashcard for the definition.

Stiles gets crumbs everywhere as he eats, but he thoughtfully brushes them all back onto the plate when he finally starts packing up to leave. Derek tries not to feel too disappointed. He’s been sitting here for at least half an hour now; it’s just that the thirty minutes have gone by quickly, faster than Derek would have liked them to.

Still, he’s not going to make it weird by suggesting that Stiles should stay, and when Stiles finally gets to his feet, Derek doesn’t say anything, expecting Stiles to head for the door with maybe just a muttered ‘goodbye.’ 

To his surprise, Stiles doesn’t leave just yet. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see him shift his weight, his sneaker scuffing against the wood floor.

“So, thanks,” Stiles says after a few more moments of silence. “For the coffee and the scone. They were really good. I’m, uh... heading out. To the library, I think.”

Derek’s smiling before he even looks up, totally unable to help it. That was more of an acknowledgment than he thought he’d get, and it makes it feel like he’s maybe getting somewhere. This afternoon wasn’t his moment, but maybe the next time they see each other _will_ be.

If nothing else, Derek can at least believe that he might actually get such a moment now.

“You’re welcome,” he says sincerely. “You should check out the fourth floor of the library. There are some really nice chairs in the back left corner - nice and quiet.”

Stiles looks like he doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but he offers a smile of his own in return and an awkward, stilted little wave, before he heads for the door.

He hasn’t been gone for more than thirty seconds before Isaac’s sliding into Stiles’ recently-vacated seat, eyeing Derek expectantly.

“So?” he prompts. “Did you confess your undying love or what?”

Derek shoots him a look, but it’s lacking any real heat. He can’t manage a true glare when he’s feeling this quietly pleased.

“He liked the coffee,” is all he says, but he can feel a stupid, embarrassing smile steal across his face. He knows it’s bad when Isaac groans, claps a hand dramatically over his eyes.

“You’ve got it so bad,” Isaac says. “Seriously, you’re an embarrassment, this is nauseating.”

Yeah, Derek thinks, it probably is. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to care very much.

*

Cal comes into the kitchen Thursday morning, when Derek’s halfway through the bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats that he liberated from Aiden’s cupboard.

“So, there haven’t been any pranks in awhile,” he says, unknowingly echoing Derek’s words from the day before.

Derek just lifts his eyebrows in response, waiting for the rest of that thought.

“Do you think that means we’re done?” Cal asks, padding over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Because I, for one, would _love_ to be done with the pranks, Derek.”

“I... we might be done, yeah,” Derek says slowly, stirring his spoon around in his cereal, carefully flipping each square frosting-side up, so the icing doesn’t totally disintegrate. He’s been thinking about that himself, how Stiles has apparently been reluctant to participate in the pranking this side of his and Derek’s hook up. It has to mean something, and Derek’s hoping it means a newfound respect, maybe, an indication that Stiles doesn’t want to make Derek’s life quite so difficult anymore. Perhaps, even, that he’s seeing Derek in a new light.

“Excellent,” Cal says, taking his coffee out toward the living room. “I _still_ catch phantom whiffs of butter sometimes, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to enjoy movie theater popcorn properly ever again. This entire experience has been traumatizing, let’s never do it again.”

He’s halfway out of the room before he even finishes speaking, so Derek doesn’t bother with a response; he just smiles to himself and takes a big bite of cereal. There have been some moments of near-trauma this semester, to be sure, but depending on how the next few weeks shake out, it might also turn out to be the best semester he’s ever had.

*

Friday dawns cool and overcast. Derek’s up early, full of excess energy, now that he’s no longer spending quite so much time at the gym. He doesn’t have a class until 11:30, but he’s too restless to stay inside, so he throws on his jacket, grabs his bag and heads for campus instead.

It’s just about nine o’clock when he veers off his path toward the Econ building, where he knows the lobby has a coffee stand. It’s good coffee, too, and reasonably on his way - that’s really the only reason he stops. Nothing at all to do with the Econ exam he knows is slated for later this morning.

Derek sighs as he gets into line, rubs a hand over his face and wonders when he got so good at denial.

He’s only a handful of people away from ordering when a familiar voice calls out his name. Derek’s heart legitimately leaps, a smile on his face the instant he turns to face Stiles, who’s staring at him in astonishment. He feels a stab of want at the sight of him, pale and sleepy, his still-damp hair an absolute riot. Chances are good that Stiles rolled out of bed, into and out of a shower, and then made his way straight here.

“Morning,” Derek says pleasantly. Stiles makes his way over to him, practically tripping over his own feet. His eyes are wide, with dark, bruisey circles underneath. He clearly hasn’t caught up on his sleep yet, which makes Derek want to take him home and put him to bed, because Derek clearly has a problem. 

Stiles’ mouth parts, slack and soft, and Derek can see the question forming in his expression before Stiles even blurts it out.

“Are you following me?”

“Well, seeing as I was here first, no,” Derek says, grateful that it’s an answer he’s able to give honestly. It’s a technicality, maybe, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. He can’t resist adding a second jab at Stiles though, anything to get him riled up. Riled is a good look on Stiles. “And second - paranoid much?”

“I don’t think I can be blamed for that!” Stiles says, his voice winding tighter and higher. “You’re, like, _everywhere_ lately, what is up with that?”

Derek’s saved from answering by the barista calling him up to the counter. “Hi,” he says quickly, “I’ll take a black coffee and a pumpkin latte.” He feels Stiles go stiff and speechless behind him, and it takes everything Derek has in him not to smirk.

They’re simple drinks to make, and the barista hands them over before Derek’s even opened up his wallet.

“You - what?” Stiles stutters, when Derek hands him the pumpkin latte.

“You want a bagel or something?” Derek offers, because he’s had the blueberry ones before, and they’re ridiculously good.

“No,” Stiles says, though he’s clutching his coffee to his chest like it’s serving as a lifeline to his sanity. “No, thank you. I - no. No bagels.”

Derek shrugs - he’s certainly not going to force the issue - and hands the barista his money. 

“You should eat something,” he says. He starts to walk away from the stand, and in a surprising but promising turn of events, Stiles actually follows him.

“You have that Econ test today, right?” Derek adds, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Okay, _creepy_ ,” Stiles says. “How do you even know that?”

Derek keeps his voice oh-so-casual as he replies. “Greenberg has that class with you, he’s been studying for that exam all week.” Stiles only stares, clueless, and Derek fights back a smirk, rolls his eyes instead. He’s going to have to sit down and have a chat with Greenberg about his plans for the future, because clearly he should become a spy for the CIA or something. Derek’s never met anyone quite so forgettable.

“Greenberg,” Derek repeats. “He’s one of our pledges. He says he sits behind you nearly every class.”

Immediately, he worries he’s given too much away, because Stiles face goes glazed, like he’s trying to put a theory together, but can’t quite manage it. Derek takes another sip of his coffee to keep himself from saying anything else incriminating.

“I... have to go,” Stiles says suddenly, turning on his heel and beelining for the stairs.

“Good luck!” Derek calls and gets a flustered wave in return.

It’s completely stupid, how just those few minutes with Stiles leave him feeling so relaxed and happy, like he’s had the chance to start his morning off in the best way possible. He’s actually humming as he heads for the exit, though he puts a stop to that the instant he realizes.

Next time, he thinks. The next time he runs into Stiles, maybe he’ll finally make his move. And then Stiles won’t have to wonder why Derek keeps popping up and buying him coffee.

*

The rest of Derek’s day goes pretty smoothly. There’s a guest speaker in his Architectural Theory class, so there’s nothing much for him to do but listen and take notes. Once that class is over, Derek detours to the on-campus grocery store for a sandwich, which he eats in the library while he goes over his reading for Monday’s classes. He’d rather do it now than have it hanging over him all weekend. He’s learned his lesson, too, about counting on Sundays to be days of rest. Better to get his work done sooner rather than later and risk being interrupted.

It’s verging on three o’clock by the time he finally starts making his way back to his house, and the sky has turned a nasty, threatening gray. There’s a near-constant rumble of thunder, and Derek picks up his pace, not wanting to get caught in a downpour. The wind’s started to pick up, too, and he keeps his head down as he jogs the last few blocks to the Den.

It’s not until he’s halfway down the block that he glances up, and what he sees brings him to a standstill.

The Alpha house is _covered_ in toilet paper.

Long, billowing sheets of it are trailing from the trees in their front yard, and every inch of the house that has any sort of outcropping is barely visible in the face of the extensive TP job. It’s strewn across the grass, too, probably from where the wind’s blown it off the trees.

Derek stares for long, long moments, until the first drop of rain splatters directly on his forehead.

“Shit,” he swears, as he bolts for the front door, the clouds finally breaking open to pelt him with fat raindrops. “Shit, _shit_.”

Dry toilet paper would have been bad enough to deal with, but the wet, soggy mess the rain is going to leave behind will be a downright nightmare.

“Who’s here?” Derek yells, as soon as he storms inside, slamming the door behind him. “Hello? Anyone? If someone’s here they’d better get downstairs _right now_.”

It takes a minute or so, but eventually Derek hears footsteps pounding down the staircase and then Aiden rounds the corner, squinty-eyed and disheveled, wearing only his boxers.

“The hell - Derek?” he scowls. “What’s wrong?”

“The house is _covered_ in toilet paper,” Derek says, his voice nearly a snarl. “Somebody TP’d us - have you been here all afternoon? How did you not _notice_ it?”

“I was distracted,” Aiden says, defensive. Derek takes a closer look at him and notices a smear of lipstick on his jaw. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Derek mutters, and Aiden just flips him off, trots over to the window to peek outside.

“Whoa,” he says, his tone almost impressed. “Whoever it was didn’t half-ass it.”

“Whoever it was,” Derek says with a snort, digging out his phone and scrolling through his contacts for Jackson’s number. “Like we don’t already know _exactly_ who it was. That little _shit_ , I’m going to - I thought he - that we’d - ”

He breaks off, because Aiden’s giving him a strange look, and Derek’s not interested in talking about why he’s so upset right now. He shouldn’t be, it’s not like he’s done anything but buy Stiles a couple cups of coffee, but it still feels like a slap in the face, somehow, coming home to yet another mess, courtesy of Stiles Stilinski.

“Jackson,” Derek barks, as soon as he picks up. “I need your key - the one you kept from your old dorm room.”

“Why?” Jackson asks, because on no planet will he ever be as agreeable as Greenberg.

“I’d like to have a chat with Stiles,” Derek says, irritation dripping from every word, “and his dorm seems like a good place to start.”

That’s apparently enough to satisfy Jackson, who asks if Derek can swing by the dining hall and pick the key up from him there. Derek agrees and hangs up.

“Should I call some of the guys, try to clean up before it really starts storming?” Aiden asks, ducking his head down to see out of the window better.

Derek shakes his head, waves him off. “By the time anyone gets here, it’s going to be a mess,” he says. “We’ll save it for once the storm’s over.”

“Okay,” Aiden says, looking relieved. “Well, give him hell. I’m, uh, gonna get back...”

“Yeah, have fun,” Derek says drily. Aiden flashes him a grin and takes off for the stairs.

For once, Derek managed to park his car close, just two houses down from the Den. It’s raining, but it hasn’t really started coming down yet, so he’s not even that wet by the time he slides into the Camaro’s front seat.

The dining hall isn’t too far away from Stiles’ dorm and as a bonus, comes with a parking lot, so Derek simply parks the Camaro, meets Jackson at the entrance for the keys, then storms up the hill towards Stiles’ building.

The storm truly breaks just as Derek reaches the quad, and he has to make a run for the entrance. He’s uncomfortably damp by the time he ducks inside, although he escapes an outright soaking. Small blessings.

It’s been awhile since he’s been in a freshman dorm, and when he spots the security guard’s desk, he slows his steps, suddenly worried he won’t even be able to get inside.

As Derek approaches though, he realizes it’s a student guard, and the tension seeps out of him immediately. He lets his most charming smile spread across his face, the one that gets him free drinks at bars.

“Hi,” he says as he steps up to the desk. The girl gives him a cool look, pointedly taking her earbuds out and setting her pen down on the desk. She can’t be more than a sophomore, if that, with dark hair and darker eyes, and she’s looking at Derek like she’s not about to put up with any bullshit.

“If you’re visiting, you’re going to need somebody to sign you in,” she says crisply, no-nonsense.

Derek feels his smile falter.

“Look,” he says, “I was hoping - ”

“Nope,” the girl cuts him off. “You either have someone sign you in, or you can turn yourself right around and head back outside.”

“I wanted to surprise my boyfriend,” Derek blurts, his mouth once more moving without his brain giving permission. It’s a thing that seems to be happening more and more often lately.

The girl lifts her eyebrows, surprise creeping into her expression.

“Um,” she says, obviously caught off guard. “Really?”

Derek’s kicking himself for the lie - he’s probably forever jinxing himself here, and it’s going to be mortifying if it ever gets back to Stiles, but he’s kind of backed himself into a corner, leaving himself with no choice but to go along with it.

“It’s stupid, I know,” he says, sheepish. “But if you could make an exception...”

He trails off, hopeful, and the girl’s eyes narrow.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” she presses. “I live on the fourth floor, and I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Uh, Stiles?” Derek says. Shit, he can feel his face heating up. “It’s - it’s new.”

Now the girl looks outright stunned, but she also doesn’t look like she thinks Derek is lying. “Damn,” she murmurs. “Well done, Stilinski.”

That’s enough to snap Derek out of his embarrassment, and he gives her a glare, which only makes her laugh.

“I’ll make an exception this once,” she warns. “But tell Stiles that Harley said next time he’d better be signing you in.”

“Sure thing,” Derek says, giving her one last, tight smile, then slipping past her toward the staircase.

According to Jackson, Stiles and Scott’s room is only one floor up, but it’s still plenty of time for Derek’s ire to kick back up. His clothes are wet and chilled, his fraternity house is covered in a disgusting mess of toilet paper, and he just... he can’t even begin to guess where Stiles’ head is at. It felt like they were getting somewhere, like maybe Stiles was finally starting to see Derek as more than the president of the Alphas and the target of all his pranks. But now they're right back where they started, and Derek has no idea where to go from there.

He briefly contemplates knocking once he reaches Stiles’ door, but he goes for Jackson’s key instead, quickly unlocking the door and slipping inside, closing it a bit too hard behind him.

The room is shockingly dim, dark enough that for a moment, Derek wonders whether Stiles and Scott are even here. As his eyes adjust to the shadows though, Derek catches movement out of the corner of his eye, a sharp, jerky motion that draws attention. He turns, and there’s Stiles, sprawled out on top of his bed.

If Derek thought he looked sleepy earlier, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now. God, Derek wants to climb right on top of him, but that’s not why he’s here, so he only crosses his arms, leans back against the door to keep himself from getting any closer.

“Whassat?” Stiles asks roughly. He’s squinting - adorably, damn it - and it takes him to the count of five to actually spot Derek. When he does, he spends a couple seconds blinking, then rubs haphazardly at his eyes, as if maybe he thinks his vision needs clearing.

“Th’hell?” he asks, brow wrinkling in a frown, and Derek realizes he’s at a serious disadvantage here. Warm, sleepy Stiles might as well be his kryptonite.

“I thought we were done with the pranks,” Derek says, keeping his voice low and irritated, the better to remind himself what he’s doing here, why he sought Stiles out.

“Pranks?” Stiles asks. He sits up, his sheets falling away to reveal his bare chest, and before Derek’s even recovered from that, he gets out of bed entirely and pushes himself to his feet.

The only light in the room is coming from the window, and it's a grey rainy day outside, which means the room is far too dark for Derek to make out all the details he wants. Still, Stiles is pale and beautiful in the gloom, boxers slung low around his hips; Derek can see the groove of muscle there, wants to fit his fingers to the plane of it.

“What are you even talking about?” Stiles continues, drawing Derek’s attention back up to his face. “I haven’t done anything in over a week.”

It’s a blatant lie, it _has_ to be, and Derek’s heartbeat kicks up a notch. “Then why don’t you explain to me,” he growls, “why the Alpha house is currently covered in soggy, mostly disintegrated toilet paper.”

Stiles just continues blinking at him in confusion, and then he suddenly reaches for his phone, his frown deepening as his fingers fly across the screen.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groans, and all at once Derek feels like he’s lost the thread of this conversation. “They went with the TPing? Really? _Really_?”

“What do you mean, ‘they’?” Derek asks, trying to hold onto his anger, but it’s already slipping away, going, going, gone.

“You think _I_ had anything to do with this?” Stiles asks. His tone of voice implies a certain level of ‘how _dare_ you,’ which leaves Derek fighting a smile, damn it.

“Come on,” Stiles continues, “this isn’t even any _good_. TPing someone’s place is totally lame!”

For the sake of appearances, Derek is still glaring, but then Stiles shifts, reaching up to scrub a hand through his hair, and Derek drops his gaze, eyeing the play of muscles in Stiles’ chest, glad he's growing steadily more accustomed to the dim lighting.

“Seriously,” Stiles says, “that was not me. That was the other members of my pledge class finally taking some initiative. Lame, unoriginal initiative, but still.”

“Fine,” Derek says, stealing a glance at Stiles’ shoulders, the slope down to his waist, the long, lean lines of him. 

“How are you even here?” Stiles asks after a beat. “Our doors lock automatically, and the window is closed! And the wall outside is not particularly conducive to climbing - believe me, I have tried.”

Derek is going to have to ask about that later, definitely. “I have a key,” he offers, holding it up to prove it. Jackson will probably be pissed for giving him away, but Derek’s feeling magnanimous, now that he knows Stiles wasn’t behind this most recent prank.

“You - what?” Stiles asks, voice spiraling high and spluttery. “How?”

“Jackson kept it,” Derek says. “He claimed he lost his copy, and then just paid for a replacement.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, sounding faintly outraged. “That is _ridiculously_ against the rules!”

Derek has a sneaking suspicion that Stiles is only mad he didn’t think to do the same, which is honestly kind of shocking, considering it’s Stiles.

Stiles huffs an irritated breath, and Derek is momentarily distracted by the rise and fall of his chest. His boxers keep slipping lower, the waistband loose and worn. Derek thinks they’d probably be soft to the touch.

“Okay,” Stiles says in a rush. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, feel free to be on your way.”

Derek pulls in a deep breath, and after a split-second of deliberation, he moves closer instead. His anger’s all gone, and he doesn’t think he can stand to let another moment slip through his fingers. It’s starting to feel like now or never, and he doesn’t want to risk being stuck with never.

As he draws nearer, he can see Stiles more clearly, and he finds himself looking at Stiles’ neck, seeking out the hickey that had still been there two days ago. He can see it, just barely, a bruise only slightly darker than the other shadows draped over his body.

Derek’s reaching out to touch it before he can stop himself, his fingertips skimming over it, not quite pressing down.

“You still have a mark,” he says quietly. He’s close enough now that he can feel Stiles’ answering shiver.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says. His voice is hoarse. “You are a vampire, congratulations.”

It’s the kind of remark that demands some snark in return, but Derek’s busy right now, too distracted to come up with a properly sarcastic response. Stiles’ skin is warm and soft underneath his fingers, and he trails his fingers around Stiles’ neck, finally pressing his thumb to Stiles’ pulse, which he can _feel_ start to race.

“Derek?” Stiles asks. “What’s... what is this? What are we doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, not sure where to start. He’s never been good with words, and he has a feeling that jumping right in with ‘I’m crazy about you’ is only going to result in disbelief.

“You - you’re interesting,” is what he goes with instead. “You _interest_ me, and people usually don’t.”

“I interest you,” Stiles echoes, dry and self-deprecating. “That is... shocking, frankly. I would’ve gone with irritating or infuriating way before interesting.”

“Oh, you’re those, too,” Derek says, fighting back the smile that’s threatening. He doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s laughing at him, and so to keep the grin from blooming full-force, he presses in and takes a kiss for himself instead.

There’s no hesitation whatsoever for Stiles. He immediately gets closer, a sweet, muffled moan getting caught in his throat, the kind of soft, helpless sound Derek remembers from the last time they did this.

It’s the best reaction Derek could have hoped for, and he gets his hand on the curve of Stiles’ lower back, nudging him closer.

That move backfires, since Stiles immediately jerks his mouth away from Derek’s with a shocked cry.

“Jesus, fuck,” Stiles bursts out. “You’re _cold_.”

“Clothes’re wet, can’t help it,” Derek says distractedly, wanting only to get his mouth back on Stiles, to get his hands all _over_ him. He can imagine that would be uncomfortable for Stiles though, and so he steps back, quickly and efficiently stripping out of his clothes. As soon as he’s divested himself of everything but his underwear, he’s on Stiles again, curving a hand to the back of his neck to reel him in for another heady kiss, his free hand sliding down Stiles’ back to palm at his ass.

“Here, c’mon,” Stiles mumbles, starts tugging Derek back toward his bed. “My bed’s warm - an’ I have an excellent comforter.”

“Sold,” Derek says, unable to stop his smile as he shoves down first his underwear, and then Stiles’, almost pouncing him back onto his mattress as soon as the two of them are naked. He immediately seeks out his neck, fixes his mouth below Stiles’ ear so he can get to work on a new mark, something fresh and visible, because Stiles had said he didn’t mind, and he’s not complaining now, either, not doing anything but arching up into Derek’s body, the hot, wet suction of his mouth.

When Derek grips Stiles’ thigh, Stiles simply goes with the motion, curls his leg around Derek’s waist until the two of them are rocking against each other, the rough friction sending shocky bursts of pleasure right down Derek’s spine. 

It’s heady and thrilling, but it’s not going to be enough, and once Derek’s satisfied with his hickey, he breaks away for just long enough to ask, “Have you got anything?” before shifting down to better explore the rest of Stiles’ body. A touch of teeth at Stiles’ nipple makes his whole body jerk, in a way that leaves Derek smugly pleased, knowing he’s done something good.

“I - here,” Stiles says, digging some lotion out of his nightstand. Derek offers his hand, then makes a fist, spreading the lotion around just enough to leave his palm slick. Stiles gasps again, loudly, when Derek finally starts to stroke the both of them, keeping his grip firm and his pace steady.

“I was - I wanted to blow you,” Stiles says, and Derek bites his own lip, hard, the bright burst of pain possibly all that keeps him from coming right then. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is good, too,” Stiles babbles. “Just. I - I just - ”

“Next time,” Derek promises, rubbing his thumb across the head of Stiles’ cock, which is already sticky with precome. “Next time, okay?”

Stiles makes another strangled noise, but he doesn’t offer any more words, just grabs Derek’s face and pulls him into a sloppy, dirty kiss.

Distantly, Derek thinks about how all those hours at the gym are really paying off. There’s no way he’d be able to keep this position up if he hadn’t been dedicated to his workouts. Stiles seems into it, too, if the way his hands keep groping at Derek’s biceps and shoulders are any indication.

“Fuck, c’mon,” Stiles moans, right around the time Derek’s starting to feel uncoordinated, his arm starting to tremble from keeping himself propped up. “Almost - so close - ”

It’s the thought of Stiles coming - of _making_ him come - that punches a sound out of Derek, makes him grip tighter, speed up the tempo of his strokes. 

Stiles makes the most amazing sound as his body tightens up with his orgasm, and just listening to it is enough to get Derek there, jerking himself once, twice, three times, right onto Stiles’ abs.

This time, Derek settles right on top of Stiles, even if he is probably too heavy for it. He doesn’t care, he wants this closeness, wants to feel the warmth of Stiles underneath him, the rise and fall of his panted breaths. 

Stiles allows it, too, for longer than Derek expects, before he finally starts squirming.

“Okay, enough smushing,” he says, wriggling until Derek slides off of him. There’s not actually room to go far, which suits Derek just fine; in fact, just to make sure Stiles doesn’t get it in his head to take off again, he wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist and snuggles in closer, unmindful of the come and sweat he’s totally getting everywhere.

He’s pretty sure he could stay here forever, he thinks muzzily. Orgasms always leave him kind of slow and stupid, and right now everything is warm, _Stiles_ is warm, and the pillow he’s on smells like a combination of Stiles’ shampoo and his cologne, and Derek never wants to leave this bed.

“Ugh, God, this was stupid,” Stiles mumbles a while later, and a rush of panic makes Derek lock up, arm tightening where it’s still wrapped around Stiles, holding him close.

This can’t be happening to him a second time. It _can’t_ be.

Stiles turns as best he can, trying to look at him, and Derek meets his gaze reluctantly, afraid of what he’ll see.

There’s no panic though, no real trace of unhappiness or regret; if anything, there’s confusion, and that only appears once Stiles has gotten a good look at Derek’s face.

“I - I just mean,” Stiles says haltingly, “that I don’t have a bathroom or anything? To wash up. It’s communal - there’s one down the hall, but that’s it.”

“Oh,” Derek says and breathes out all his tension. Stiles has a point - he’s more covered in it than Derek is, but the both of them are a mess, and it’s going to get very unpleasant very soon. Derek twists, reaches down and grabs the first shirt his hand comes into contact with, starts to clean the both of them up.

“Hey! Dude - that’s _my_ \- ugh, forget it, you asshole,” Stiles mutters, but this time Derek hears just how much Stiles doesn’t actually mean it, and it makes him smile, makes him get rid of the shirt and chase down Stiles’ mouth for some more kissing.

Stiles is an excellent kisser, his mouth more than living up to all of the thoughts Derek’s had about it. For right now, they keep things lazy and slow, though Derek eventually props himself up enough to hover over Stiles once more, finding a better angle to explore his mouth.

It doesn’t take too long for Derek to start getting hard again, but he’s thinking they should probably talk first. He just - he needs to know that he and Stiles are really on the same page here, so he eventually starts to pull back, peppering Stiles’ mouth with short, sweet kisses, eventually pressing a final kiss to one of Stiles’ dimples before carefully dragging his nose along the smooth curve of Stiles’ cheek.

“You going to let me feed you this time?” he asks, the steady calm of his voice totally at odds with the way his heart is beating fit to burst.

“Uh, feed me?” Stiles asks. “Wait, what do you mean, this time?”

“Well, last time we did this,” Derek begins, concentrating hard so he doesn’t choke over the words, “I was going to ask if you wanted to get breakfast. But you ran away.”

He’s touching Stiles as he talks, choosing to nuzzle at his neck instead of looking at him, a little afraid of what he might see, of what sort of expression Stiles might be wearing.

“You... wanted to get me breakfast,” Stiles says.

“Mmm,” Derek hums in agreement, then dips down to press his mouth to Stiles’ throat, his teeth scraping lightly. Stiles squirms away from him though, and when Derek finally lifts his head, he’s frowning. He looks downright stern, and it makes Derek’s stomach twist unpleasantly.

“Are you trying to recruit me?” Stiles demands, which - what?

“What?” Derek asks, not having a clue where Stiles is going with that.

“With the - you know, the coffee!” Stiles says. “And the scones, and the stalking me, and - okay, I mean, sex would be an extreme measure, I don’t see how you could want me in your frat that badly - ”

Derek can already tell that Stiles is working himself up to a full-fledged rant, and so he interrupts him before he can really get going.

“I don’t want you in my frat,” he says, and Stiles’ mouth drops open.

“Well, geez, _thanks_ \- ”

“That isn’t -that’s not what I meant,” Derek says helplessly. “I - ” He grunts, unsure how he can possibly make himself any clearer. Damn it, he thought Stiles was finally _getting_ it.

He rolls on top of Stiles once more, so that he can lean over him, look him right in the eye this time.

“You’re a menace,” he says, moving in for a quick, fierce kiss. “And you’ve been driving me and my entire frat crazy all semester. But you’re _smart_ , and fascinating and so fucking sharp, and if you ever decided to switch your pledge, I’d take you up on it in a heartbeat.”

There’s something about Stiles’ expression - incredulous and still-confused - that makes Derek want to kiss it right off his face. So he gives it his best attempt, his kisses aggressive and a little bitey.

Stiles still manages to gasp out a, “But?” not letting Derek off the hook that easily.

“But,” Derek repeats, “that’s not what the coffee was for. Or the bagels. Or the sex. I _told_ you - you interest me. And I want to take you out for breakfast.” He glances up then, sees how dark it is outside and realizes it must be approaching five o’clock. “Or... dinner now, I guess.”

“So,” Stiles says, still sounding totally disbelieving. “You mean, like, a date? You want to take me out on a date.”

Derek just looks at him steadily, because he can’t possibly get any more obvious than that.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes after a moment. “You - _what_? Really?”

“Are you seriously going to make me keep repeating it?” Derek snipes, surprised when that gets him a bright, happy laugh in return, gets him dragged down into a kiss.

“You need to learn to use your words,” Stiles says, words almost indecipherable, since he says them right into Derek’s mouth.

“I didn’t have time, you ran away,” Derek says. There’s a feeling rising up inside of him, filling up his entire chest and leaving it tight and bursting with warmth.

Happiness, he thinks dizzily, and he slides his hand down to Stiles’ ass, pulls him more firmly against his own body.

He’s not expecting it when Stiles gets a hand on his shoulder, shoves him over so that he’s flat on his back. Stiles straddles him, his ass fitting snugly over Derek’s cock, which gives a vicious throb at the feeling of Stiles settled on top of him.

“I know where Scott keeps his condoms,” Stiles says, voice warm and rich. “You wanna?”

Derek breathes in sharply, his hands gripping firmly at Stiles’ bony hips. “I want,” he says. He doesn’t think Stiles understands the full extent of that yet, just how _much_ Derek wants him, but they’ll get there, he thinks, even as he slides his palm over Stiles’ cock, takes in the way it makes Stiles’ head drop back, exposing his pale throat, now marked by Derek’s mouth.

Yeah, he thinks, gaze sweeping over Stiles, taking everything about him in.

They’ll get there.

*

Jackson’s having what probably constitutes a full-fledged meltdown, and Derek is probably enjoying it more than he should.

Stiles is _definitely_ enjoying it more than he should; he hasn’t stopped grinning since Jackson walked into the Den and found Stiles on the couch, tucked comfortably underneath Derek’s arm.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Jackson says, his voice verging on an actual shout. “You and him - _seriously_? You’re fucking _Stilinski_?”

“Dating,” Derek corrects mildly.

“But also fucking,” Stiles says, grinning when Derek shoots him a look. It’s only been two days, but it’s becoming a pretty common theme in their relationship - Stiles saying something outrageous, then looking simply delighted when it earns him a glare.

Derek’s phone buzzes in his pocket, just as Jackson launches into a new tirade. When he digs it out, he sees it’s Laura.

“It’s my sister - be right back,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple, then getting up and heading for the front door, not feeling too bad about leaving Stiles to Jackson’s ranting. He can handle it. Hell, Derek would put some serious money down on Stiles emerging as the winner of whatever showdown is about to occur.

As soon as Derek’s on the front porch, he taps the answer button and brings the cell up to his ear.

“Hey,” he says warmly. It’s been days since he and Laura have talked - before Halloween, for sure, and he’d never admit it, but it’s nice to hear her voice.

“Hey yourself,” Laura says, sounding surprised, but pleased. “Having a good day?”

Derek doesn’t have to think about it; he starts smiling before he even replies. “Yeah, actually. I am.”

“ _And_ you’re _admitting_ to it?” Laura says. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Shut up,” Derek says. Laura, of course, laughs.

“Well, what’s the occasion?” she asks. “Got some exciting news to share?”

Derek leans out from the porch a little, enough to peek through the front window, where he can see Stiles now sprawled comfortably along the entire length of the couch. He looks right at home, relaxed and amused, not at all bothered by whatever abuse Jackson is undoubtedly throwing at him.

“Derek?” Laura prompts, curious.

“Yeah,” Derek says. His voice is a little bit rough. Stiles looks good, is all, so at home on Derek’s couch. Derek’s already itching to get back to him. “Do you, uh, remember that infuriating freshman I told you about?”

“Mm-hmm,” Laura hums. “The one doing all the pranking? Why, Derek, are you about to prove me right?”

Derek scowls, even though Laura can’t see him. He remembers her insistence that Derek has been enjoying this semester far more than he’s been letting on. She’s _definitely_ going to be smug, and she doesn’t even know the full story yet. But he glances Stiles’ way again, and the scowl melts right off; Derek can’t maintain it in the rush of easy contentment that fills him at the sight. 

“I... yeah,” he sighs, but he can’t even muster up any trace of annoyance. He’s in too good of a place for that. “I’m about to prove you right.”

Inside the house, Stiles glances up and spots Derek looking. He grins, gives him a wave, and Derek answers it with a smile of his own.

“So, that infuriating freshman,” he says, eyes never leaving Stiles. “Turns out I’m kind of crazy about him.”

*

When Derek gets back inside, Jackson’s disappeared, likely stomped off to some other part of the house, far away from Stiles.

“Good talk?” Stiles asked, not making any move to sit up and make room for Derek.

“Laura wants to meet you,” Derek says, settling himself down on top of Stiles, draping over him like a blanket.

“Cool,” Stiles says, easy as ever. “Means I get all your embarrassing kid stories sooner rather than later.”

“I said she wanted to meet you, not that I was going to let her,” Derek says, tucking his face into Stiles’ neck, sighing contentedly when Stiles starts running his fingers through Derek’s hair.

His phone buzzes again, an email alert, and Derek digs it out, scowling when he sees the new message.

“ _Damn_ it,” he grumbles.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks idly, giving Derek’s hair a light tug.

“This stupid One Direction website,” Derek says. “I somehow got onto their email list, and now I can’t get _off_ of it.”

Underneath him, Stiles goes very still, his fingers no longer teasing through Derek’s hair. He makes a strangled noise, and Derek pushes himself back, suddenly needing to see his face.

His lips are pressed tightly together in a clear effort to stave off a grin, but it’s no use; the corners are already pulling up, and if that weren’t enough of a clue, his eyes are positively lit up with mischief.

“ _Stiles_!” Derek exclaims, feeling his mouth drop open. Jesus - how did he not see this one coming? “You - do you have _any idea_ what my inbox has looked like the past couple weeks?”

That’s clearly more than Stiles can take, because he bursts out laughing, his whole body shaking with it.

“Okay, that’s it,” Derek says, pushing off the couch only to tug Stiles up as well, grabbing him around the waist and slinging him over his shoulder. Stiles twists, trying to get away, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“Put me down, you caveman,” Stiles says, but Derek can hear his grin, the pure delight in his voice. “Where are we going?”

“To my room,” Derek says, heading for the stairs. “You can make this one up to me in blowjobs.”

Stiles laughs again, a sound that’s quickly becoming Derek’s favorite thing in the world.

" _Menace_ ," Derek says, once they're behind the locked door of his room, and he's deposited Stiles onto the center of his bed.

"Yeah, but you love it," Stiles says, stripping off his shirt before grabbing the front of Derek's sweater and pulling him down on top of him for a messy, enthusiastic kiss.

Yeah, Derek thinks to himself, sinking easily into the now-familiar press of Stiles' body. He really kind of does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, you can find me on tumblr at [sidekickinit](http://sidekickinit.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


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